


The Renegade and the Hound

by pipermca



Series: Alt Modes and Alchemy [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Atheism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Magic, Deities, Epic Battles, Good versus Evil, M/M, Magic, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Spark Sexual Interfacing, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, robot gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-02-12 19:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 82,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12966390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermca/pseuds/pipermca
Summary: Bluestreak of Praxus ran. He ran from who he was and what others wanted him to be. But a chance encounter steers him onto a new path: one that will force him to face his past, confront his fears, and accept his destiny... For the good of all of Cybertron.





	1. Running Incognito

Bluestreak’s nearly empty tanks grumbled at him, and a low energy warning pinged on his HUD. He crawled along at a slow but fuel-efficient speed, scanning as far as he could into the darkness ahead of him, looking for the waystation.

The mech he’d chatted with at the previous waystation had given him explicit directions, ending with a now-ominous sounding, “You can’t miss it!” After the sun set and the darkness of the countryside became complete, Bluestreak became more and more certain that he had, indeed, missed the waystation.

How long ago had he been at that last waystation? Was it four or five cycles ago? Bluestreak rolled forward steadily, sitting low on his tires in fatigue. He did not want to spend another night recharging outdoors again, and he was in dire need of fuel.

He came around a dark bend in the road that looked like so many of the other dark bends in the road that he’d passed, and saw a light ahead. Bluestreak’s spark leapt as the light resolved into the cycling green and yellow marking an open station. 

Despite his eagerness to reach the promise of fuel and recharge, Bluestreak rolled to a stop and transformed to root mode. He carefully folded his door wings down flat against his back, and clipped them into the brackets he’d had installed. He felt a familiar twinge in his shoulder actuators as they protested being pulled in this unnatural direction yet again, and he resolutely ignored the pain. Bluestreak threw his cloak over his back to cover his folded door wings, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and walked the kilometer to the bright lights of the waystation.

Inside the waystation door, a large tankformer sat watch. He had been tossing a large knife into the wall near his seat, but looked up when Bluestreak came through the outer door. “Good evening,” Bluestreak said to the guard. The Iaconian acccent he’d adopted came naturally to him now. “I’d like a berth for the night.”

The guard grunted and pointed to a sign on the wall advising that all weapons were to be inspected and subjected to locking. Nodding, Bluestreak presented his rifle, and made a show of pulling out the power clip. The guard’s optics ran over the rifle, openly admiring it, but he made no comment on it. Instead, he inserted a lock into the rifle’s magazine and handed it back to Bluestreak. “Any other weapons on you or in you?” he asked gruffly.

“I have two blades,” Bluestreak replied, and pulled them from his compartments.

The guard took one look at the knives and said, “They’re small enough; you can keep them.” He waved Bluestreak towards a doorway. “Check in at the desk,” he said, and turned to grab his knife out of the wall.

The common room of the waystation looked like every other station Bluestreak had been in. The room had a few dozen tables that could be converted to berths, and chairs were pushed up to some of those tables. A few tired-looking mechs were scattered around, chatting or nursing fuel or a drink. 

Bluestreak walked up to the bar that stretched the length of the room, and took a seat on one of the stools. After a moment, the station keeper approached him and asked, “What’ll it be?”

Keeping a pleasant smile on his face, Bluestreak said, “How much for three cubes of energon and a berth for the night?”

The visored station keeper leaned on the bar. “Fuel is two shanix a cube. A berth in the common room is ten shanix,” he said, gesturing to the tables behind Bluestreak. “We also have shared rooms, four berths per room, for twenty-five shanix. A private room will run you sixty shanix per night.”

Bluestreak kept his smile even and bland, but internally he reeled. Sixty-six shanix for fuel and a private room! That would wipe out most of the money he’d made at the last job he’d worked. He briefly debated getting a berth in a shared room, but he was exhausted, and knew he wouldn’t recharge well with his wings bound against his back all night. And the common room was out of the question. Not only would he still need to keep his wings hidden, but the last time he’d spent the night in a common room, he’d spent half the night refusing advances from amorous mechs. 

With a nod, Bluestreak pulled the money out of his compartments. “Three cubes and a private room, please.” He slid the chips across the bar.

The station keeper’s optical band flashed in surprise, but he nodded silently and took the money. He walked down to the far end of the bar and returned a klik later with three cubes of energon and a pass card. “Room two. Up the stairs, second door on the right. Check out is at 0900 joors.”

Bluestreak picked up one of the cubes. “Thanks.” He sipped at the cube and then casually asked, “Are you looking for anyone to do some work around here for a few cycles? Odd jobs or the like?”

Leaning on the bar, the station keeper gave Bluestreak an appraising look. “Not at the moment. There’s not a lot of work around here in general.” His mouth twisted up into a grin. “Unless you’re willing to do some work in a berth, of course.”

The offer was expected, but still unwelcome. It was only through vorn of training and practice that he kept his expression pleasant and neutral. “No, not looking for anything like that. Thanks, though.”

The station keeper shrugged and stood up. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Bluestreak nodded and watched as the station keeper walked away. He guzzled down the first cube, then collected his belongings and made for the stairs.

The room was nothing special: a berth with a well-used cushion, a table and a chair, a dirty full-length mirror on the far wall, and a window looking out at the night. But at least Bluestreak was alone. He set the two remaining fuel cubes on the table and leaned his rifle against the berth. He locked the door, then took a small pot out of one of his hidden compartments. 

Bluestreak opened the pot and looked inside. He grimaced. He was running low on the charm component. He didn’t have access to the equipment to make his own, even if he could find all of the required ingredients. And finding another black market alchemist to make more for him would take time... And money he didn’t have. 

Dipping a digit into the gelled substance in the pot, Bluestreak carefully smeared a line of the clear substance up the door frame, across the top, down the far side, and along the floor under the door. As he worked, he muttered, “Protect this space from prying sensors. Conceal me from those who would find me.” After he recited the invocation three times and completed the line of gel, enclosing the doorway, the gel flashed and then quickly faded from view. 

Bluestreak repeated the process with the window, then pulled the blind closed. He looked around the room once more before nodding to himself and putting away the container.

He unclasped his cloak and threw it on the berth. Then he unclipped his door wings, letting them fold upwards into their natural position. Bluestreak could not hold back the groan as the cables in his shoulders pinged, relaxing from the stretch they had been forced into, even for so short a time. He rolled his shoulders to work the remaining kinks out of his cables. A cable massage or a hot oil bath would do wonders for the aches in his shoulders, but they were luxuries that he simply could not afford.

Bluestreak looked at himself in the mirror. It had been a long time since he’d had access to a mirrored surface this clear, smudged though it was. His grey and red paint job, which was only three vorn old, was scraped and scuffed from countless nights spent recharging in the rough. Bluestreak didn’t mind the scuffs, since they artificially aged his appearance. No one would suspect that he’d had a completely different paint job not too long ago. 

He stretched his door wings behind him, reveling in the input he was receiving from them. Now that they were fully extended, he could sense that there was a mech in the next room who was just slipping into recharge. The room on the other side of his was empty. He could tell that one the two cubes of fuel on the table was slightly warmer than the other. A draft of cool air from the window’s poor seal stirred the room’s air currents slightly.

He missed so much information when he couldn’t use all of his sensors. 

Staring into the mirror, Bluestreak considered his distinctive door wings. The paint job had been the least expensive way for him to change his appearance, and this was his third new colour scheme in ten vorn. His other two options – surgery to change his appearance, or getting a completely new body – were far more expensive. Surgery to change his shape was less expensive than getting a new body, but it was still very costly... And not just financially. Not only would the surgery be expensive, but it would involve removing his door wings and turning them into arm panels.

He shuddered thinking about it. Once his door wings were removed, he would lose many of the sensor inputs he used daily. Some of the sensors could be relocated, but others would be dulled, while others would be lost completely.

It would be a radical, desperate change. But Bluestreak knew that even with a different paint job and his door wings hidden, anyone who knew him in his previous life would still recognize him. And until he was confident he couldn’t be recognized, he had to keep running.

He was so tired of running.

* * *

The energon farmers living alone in the wilderness were usually either insane or kind. Fortunately for Bluestreak, the farmer he encountered a few cycles after the waystation was the latter.

Not only was the farmer paying him a hundred and twenty shanix for two cycles of work, but he threw in free room and board as well. Bluestreak kept his door wings bound and covered while fueling and chatting with the farmer the first night, but he had a berth room to himself where he could spread his wings and recharge with them unbound. Also, the settling tanks that Bluestreak was being paid to clean were enclosed, and far enough back on the property that Bluestreak felt comfortable freeing his door wings while he worked. He kept his sensors alert in case the farmer decided to check on him while he was working, but the farmer only came to inspect his work once Bluestreak announced that he had finished the job.

The second night, Bluestreak sat at the table with the farmer like he had the first night. They talked aimlessly about the weather and the growing season, and Bluestreak felt something like normal settle over his processor. It had been so long since Bluestreak had just been able to chat with someone about nothing in particular without worrying over whether the mech would recognize him, or want to frag him. He let himself relax, until the farmer threw him for a tailspin with one question.

“Why are ya hidin’ yer door wings?” the farmer asked.

Bluestreak was glad that he’d just swallowed the fuel in his intake, and hadn’t spewed it across the table. He tilted his helm at the farmer, hoping he’d misheard him. “Door wings?” he repeated.

“In the afternoon sun, yer shadow reflected on the side of the tank,” he farmer said with a shrug. “Don’t see many full-framed Praxians around here.”

Scrap. His shadow. Undone by a Primus-forsaken shadow. His carelessness was going to get him identified and caught.

When Bluestreak didn’t answer, the farmer shook his helm. “It’s all right. Ya don’t gotta tell me. I didn’t mean to scare ya.” He smiled at Bluestreak. “Everyone’s got a past, and everyone’s entitled to their secrets. I’ve got my own. Yours is safe with me.” He waved a hand and sipped his fuel again.

Bluestreak looked at the farmer. His frame was distinctly Urayan, but his accent sounded like he was from the heart of Polyhex. Everyone had their own secrets, indeed. He nodded. “I’d appreciate your discretion.”

The farmer leaned across the table, drawing Bluestreak’s optics. “But let me give ya some advice,” he said. “I don’t know what yer plans are, but... Get the frag out of Tarn. There’s nothin’ here now ‘cept murderers and thieves.” 

With a nod, Bluestreak said, “That’s my plan. I’m just passing through.”

“Good.” The farmer sat back in his chair. “I’da left vorn ago, ‘cept I’ve got my farm, and I’m close enough to the border that if things get real bad I can just bolt.” He pointed vaguely in the direction that Bluestreak would be heading in the morning. “Yer about two cycles away from the Iacon border. Get across, and don’t look back. Iacon’s got its own problems, but at least it ain’t like what we got here.” 

Swirling the last of his energon in his cube, Bluestreak nodded. “Thank you for the advice. And thank you for the work, berth, and fuel. It’s nice to find decent mechs around these days.”

With a long exvent, the farmer replied, “Ya seem to be a good, hard-workin’ mech. I see a bit of myself in ya… Long past, though.” He shook his helm. “Whatever’s chasin’ ya, I hope ya keep outta its clutches.”

* * *

Bluestreak took the farmer’s advice, and crossed the border into Iacon well away from the road. That got him away from the border patrols, but it also meant he went several cycles without a proper berth.

Fuel was not a problem, since the rolling terrain along the border between the two countries was teeming with game. Bluestreak shot two pigeonoids and drained them of energon. He regretfully had to leave their drained frames behind, since he lacked the equipment to also process their carcasses. But the two kills provided him with more than enough fuel to get him across the border and back on the road to his first Iaconian waystation.

Private rooms at the waystation were a staggering ninety shanix a night, so Bluestreak went with a shared room. Fortunately, the other three mechs in the room were a sociable group of friends travelling together, rather than the surly or intimidating mechs that Bluestreak normally met at waystations. 

As they were preparing for recharge that night, one of the mechs pointed at Bluestreak’s rifle. “That’s a really nice weapon,” Sprocket said with undisguised awe. “Where did you get it from?”

Bluestreak ignored the additional implied question, _Who did you steal it from?_

“It was a gift from my sire when I got my adult upgrades,” he said. He sat on his berth and put the rifle next to him. He always recharged with it in his arms as a protection against theft.

“From your sire, huh?” Sprocket replied dubiously. His optics took in Bluestreak’s scuffed and chipped paint. “I wish my creators could have afforded such a nice coming-of-age gift.”

Shrugging, Bluestreak smiled and said nothing. The best lies were the ones that were actually true.

As Sprocket tried to discreetly roll his optics, Uppercut said, “I’ll bet it could take down a torbuk with just one shot.”

“Easily,” Bluestreak said. “Depending on range, of course.” He left out how much distance he was able to eke out of the rifle; he knew his shooting skills were far better than average. “But there aren’t any torbuk around here, are there?”

“Not wild,” said Sprocket. He settled back on his berth. “But the Prime’s reserve has a herd.”

“For all the good that’ll do commoners like us,” Filament said. “You should see the size of some of those ‘buks, though! They stand tall as me at the shoulder.”

Bluestreak listened intently. A torbuk would keep him in fuel for... Well, a long time. He idly wondered how well-protected the Prime’s reserve was.

Then he shook his helm slightly to cut off that line of thinking. Poaching was illegal. Poaching from the Prime… That was asking for trouble.

“And there’s a market for the frames, too,” Uppercut said. He glanced at his friends and said, “Don’t ask me how I know, I was sworn to secrecy. But in the Underground, you can sell a torbuk frame for five-hundred shanix. If it’s a big alpha, you might get eight-hundred.”

Eight-hundred shanix! If they hadn’t been clipped against his back, Bluestreak’s wings would have shot up over his shoulders in surprise. Eight-hundred shanix would pay for almost half of the surgery he would need to hide his identity safely forever.

But poaching... In the ten vorn he’d been running, Bluestreak was proud that he had never stooped to outright thievery. Running afoul of the law would mean he risked getting identified, and all that might come with that. So he stayed above board in all of his dealings, regardless of how dire his financial situation had become.

On the other hand... Eight-hundred shanix would put him that much closer to not having to live his life in fear.

By the time the other mechs drifted into recharge that night, Bluestreak had made his choice and started to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo here we go. This is the fic that was born from the [In a Fairy Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12586468/chapters/28976529) and [Shopping Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12586468/chapters/29140374) stories in my 30-Day OTP Challenge. (Those stories will make an appearance, slightly reworked, in Chapter 2 of this story.)
> 
> I am alternately super excited about this story and terrified of it. This wasn't just a plot bunny... This was the Rabbit of Caerbannog, and I think it's gonna be one heck of a ride. o.O


	2. Infatuation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who read the 30-Day OTP Challenge fics will recognize a good chunk of this chapter, but it's been reworked slightly and expanded.

Bluestreak walked calmly but purposefully through the bustling market, past vendors selling hung braces of robochickens, piles of replacement armor, glass containers of waxes, and pots of touch-up paints. He fervently wished that he could have his door wings free in the busy market, if only to stay alert for any trouble heading his way. 

He filtered through the rows of stalls and tables, glancing from side to side, until his gaze landed on the rather non-descript grey tent that he’d been told to look for. An old mech with a faded finish hovered over a large selection of tiny jars, each filled with flavouring chips and liquids.

“Spices for your fuel! Flavourings from afar! Treat yourself to the delicate taste of Tyger Paxian fuel, or surprise your friends with treats from Rodion! Spices for your fuel!” the ancient mech called to the shoppers who passed his tent.

Bluestreak stopped at the old mech’s table and looked down at his wares. “Hello, old timer,” he said, smiling. “How is business today?”

“Oh, can’t complain,” the vendor replied, examining Bluestreak with bright optics. His gaze lingered on the outline of Bluestreak’s shoulder armor and the curve of his chest. “Can I interest you in some fluorite crystals? They’re fresh from the mines of Kaon, and pack quite a sharp flavour.”

“I’m actually interested in some of your more specialized offerings,” Bluestreak said, lowering his voice slightly. He opened his hand and flashed a handful of shanix before tucking it back into his compartments.

The old mech glanced around furtively before gesturing to Bluestreak. “Come in, around the table. Let me show you some of my more exotic goods,” he said, shuffling towards the back of the tent.

Inside the old mech’s tent, the sounds of the market were slightly muted. The tent was small, and Bluestreak had to duck slightly. The vendor looked him over again, all trace of his advanced age evaporating. “What exactly are you looking for, friend?”

“Specifically, something to immobilize or place a mech into recharge quickly, and some kind of assistance for stealth. Invisibility if you have it… If not, something like distraction would work as well.”

The vendor harrumphed and opened a chest. Digging through it, he said, “Recharge is easy enough. Invisibility… that will cost you, and I do not have any right now.” 

Bluestreak frowned. He had spent cycles mapping the guard patrols in the Prime’s reserve, and knew that they might switch them up at any time. “I can’t wait. I need it now.”

“Then I can only offer you what I have.” The old mech pulled out three small bags from the chest, all three wound with wire. “Mundanity will make optics and sensors slide right over you. If you do something unusual they may still notice you, but if you’re just standing or walking normally they won’t make note of your presence. It should serve your purpose. And recharge works as expected. They’re concentrated dusts, so no invocation is needed.” He held the bags up. “Anything else?”

Although Bluestreak needed more of the protection charm component, he knew he simply couldn’t afford it. With a smile he said, “No, that should do it. How much?”

Weighing two of the bags in his hand, the vendor said, “Seventy-five shanix.” Holding up the third bag, he added, “Unless you’d also like me to include some infatuation as well? I could give you a deal.”

“No need.” Bluestreak counted out the shanix for the vendor. The cost of the dust wiped out most of his savings, and he hoped it was worth it. Bluestreak took the two small bags the vendor handed him. “I don’t have any need for assistance with that,” he said curtly. He quickly tucked the bags into his compartments.

With a chuckle, the old vendor looked Bluestreak over once again. “I can imagine. If only I was a little less rusty…” 

“Thank you for the spices,” Bluestreak said in a slightly louder voice, ignoring the vendor’s comment. “I’m sure they will be more than suitable.” He fanned his digits in a wave at the vendor and then he turned, ducking out of the tent and vanishing into the flow of the market.

* * *

Bluestreak stilled his ventilations as he watched the herd move into the crystal grove. The torbuk were calm, barely even looking around. As the mechs at the waystation had mentioned, the torbuk had grown fat and complacent in the Prime’s reserve. Bluestreak was able to take his time to select his target.

There… That large one, near the front of the herd. Bluestreak figured it might be the herd’s alpha. It looked healthy and strong, and it was huge. Bluestreak could see why it would fetch such a high price in Iacon’s black market.

He sighted down his rifle carefully, his door wings sensing the movements of the air currents, and he adjusted his aim slightly. Then, he pulled his finger back once on the trigger. 

The herd scrambled back at the sharp sound from the rifle, and the alpha fell where it had stood. Bluestreak smiled as he climbed to his pedes and walked towards the fallen beast. A good, clean kill.

When he reached the deactivated mechanimal, Bluestreak quickly turned the beast’s helm to the side, and pulled a knife and a container out of his compartments. Slicing into the main fuel line at its throat, he quickly began draining the torbuk’s energon into the container before the fuel could curdle in its lines. He watched as the energon poured out of the beast. It was clear and clean, and would keep him fueled for a good while. 

As he waited for the lines to drain completely, he looked around him warily. The herd had moved back a bit, and a few members were staring at him placidly. “It’s all right,” he murmured to the closest one. “Don’t be afraid. I can only carry back one of you.”

The nearest torbuk blinked its optics at him, then lowered its helm to the ground and began grazing again.

Bluestreak scanned the grove and saw no other movement. He fluttered his door wings, pleased with himself. His observations of the guards’ movements had taken time, but allowed him to plan the perfect moment to act. There wasn’t a patrol due here for another few groons, so he had plenty of time to finish the job and escape with his prize. He wouldn’t even need to use any of the countermeasures he’d purchased.

Watching the energon flow from the torbuk’s lines, Bluestreak felt a twist in his spark. After ten vorn on the run, he had finally resorted to stealing. He narrowed his optics. Somehow, some way, after he had what he needed, he would find a way to make this right again.

His kill had been a large beast, so he needed a second container to fully drain it of fuel. Finally, the stream of energon from its throat became a dribble. He carefully closed both containers and placed them back into his compartments. Pulling out a length of wire, he began binding the torbuk’s front and rear legs so it could be carried more easily.

“In the name of the Prime, you are under arrest for poaching. Put your hands where I can see them.”

Bluestreak’s lines ran cold. _No, no, no..._

He slowly lifted his hands into the air next to his helm. He had been so absorbed in preparing his kill for transport that his attention had wandered away from watching for movement around him. He flared his door wings, and realized there was a mech standing behind him, rather close. 

How could he have been so clumsy? So careless? But Bluestreak admitted to himself that the guard had also been clever. The guard had used the herd as cover, hiding his own field in with the dozen or so torbuk milling around the tall crystals.

 _Calm down,_ he thought. _You can still get out of this._

“Good day cycle to you,” Bluestreak said, keeping his vocalizer steady. “I’m certain there’s just been a small misunderstanding. May I stand so we can resolve it?”

“Stand and turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands up.”

Bluestreak stood and turned around as slowly as he could, pinning a disarming smile on his face plates. The guard was a boxy green mech, and was levelling a rifle at him. Bluestreak was amazed at how close the mech had gotten to him without being noticed; he could almost reach out and touch him. He took note of the emblems on the mech’s shoulder armor marking him as one of the Prime’s Rangers. So, he wasn’t just a guard, then. That explained why he was wandering around the forest outside of the usual guard patrols.

“As I was saying,” Bluestreak said, inclining his door wings towards the green mech, “I’m sure there’s just been a misunderstanding. I have permission from the Prime’s Master of the Hunt to take down this specific torbuk.” He flicked the fingers on one hand at the motionless frame on the ground. “The poor mechanimal had symptoms of gear rot, and His Honour wanted me to dispose of the beast to ensure it did not infect the rest of the herd.”

The green mech frowned, and his optics flicked once at the torbuk and at the military-grade rifle laying on the ground next to it before returning to Bluestreak. “I haven’t heard anything about gear rot in the Prime’s herds. I don’t believe you.”

Bluestreak shrugged and tilted his helm. “Well… Ah, what did you say your designation was?” he asked.

“I didn’t.” The Ranger’s tone was flat.

Letting a small smile light on his lips, Bluestreak carried on. “Fine. Well, Sir Ranger, I have a token from the Master of the Hunt as proof of what I am saying. If you would let me get it out of my compartments…?”

The Ranger paused to consider this. Bluestreak saw the mech’s grip loosen just slightly on his rifle as he glanced back down at the torbuk’s frame.

Taking advantage of the mech’s hesitation, Bluestreak added, “This torbuk should be removed from the grove as quickly as possible. The longer it lies here, the more chance there is it will transmit the rot to the rest of the herd.” He turned himself slightly to one side, presenting his right side towards the Ranger. “His Honour’s token is in my right chest compartment if you’d rather retrieve it yourself.”

His optics flicking back up to Bluestreak’s face, the green mech growled, “No, you pull it out. Slowly, and keep your other hand in the air.”

“Of course,” Bluestreak said, smiling. He opened his compartment and pulled out a small bag, cinched at the top with a wire. He held it out to the Ranger. “I’m afraid it’s tied rather tightly… You’ll probably need both hands to open it.”

“You open it,” the Ranger said, firming his grip on his rifle.

Nodding once, Bluestreak slowly brought his other hand down and untwisted the wire. He reached into the bag and sunk his fingers into the fine sand inside. Tilting the opening of the bag towards the green mech, he said, “His Honour was very adamant that he did not want the rot infecting the rest of the Prime’s herd, and –“

With a sudden movement, Bluestreak flung a handful of the sand in the green mech’s face.

The Ranger shouted in surprise, a hand coming off his rifle too late to protect his optics. The sand flew into his vents and across his optics, and he staggered back a step.

“Sorry about that,” Bluestreak said sincerely as he watched the Ranger lower his rifle and slowly scrub at his optics. He really hadn’t wanted to use any of his countermeasures, and he had nothing against this poor mech who was just doing his job. Not to mention he had just broken the law of the land. But he could not risk getting arrested. Not now. Bluestreak watched for another klik as the rifle fell from the Ranger’s fingers and his movements became slow. 

Confident that the dust had worked, Bluestreak put away the bag of sand, knelt, and finished wiring the dead torbuk’s legs together. “Don’t worry… you won’t be permanently damaged. You’ll fall into recharge soon, and will probably only be offline for a groon or so. I’m afraid you’re going to wake up with an incredible helm ache, though.” Bluestreak finished tying the torbuck’s legs and stood, slinging its frame around his shoulders. “No hard feelings, right?” He looked up at the green mech.

But the Ranger was not falling into recharge as he expected. The green mech was staring at Bluestreak, a deep frown creasing his brow. “You…” he croaked, taking a step towards Bluestreak.

Scrap. Scrap! Recharge charms normally worked quickly. The mech should have been on the ground offline already! Bluestreak took a step backwards, holding up a hand. “Take a deep vent, Sir Ranger,” he said. “Like I said… Maybe there was a misunderstanding?” And maybe he’d be going back to that vendor to demand his shanix back... If, that is, he could get out of this.

The green mech cycled his optics and tilted his helm. A wide smile formed on his lips. “You’re... beautiful...” he murmured, taking a step towards Bluestreak.

“What?” Bluestreak’s door wings flared in confusion. He was used to being told how attractive he was, but usually not from a mech who’d just been pointing a weapon at him. Bluestreak took another step backwards. “I mean... Thank you, but… What?”

The Ranger gazed at Bluestreak like he was starving, and Bluestreak was a cube of the finest fuel he’d ever seen. “I’ve never seen another mech as gorgeous as you,” he said, holding out a hand imploringly to Bluestreak. “Please... Let me... Let me touch you. Just once. Let me touch your... perfection. Please?”

Taking another step backwards, Bluestreak stumbled over a rock and lost his footing. He felt onto his aft with a yelp, and dropped the torbuk carcass. The Ranger was on him in a moment, and Bluestreak rolled away, jumping to his pedes and snatching up his prize kill. “Yes, this has been quite the misunderstanding! I’m just going to go now, Sir Ranger, so please just – uh...” 

“My name is Hound,” said the Ranger, still stretching a hand out as if to brush it against Bluestreak’s face.

Bluestreak stumbled against another crystal as he backpedaled away from the green mech who walked inexorably towards him. “Going! Yes, I’m going now. Hound, you said? Um... It was nice meeting you?” He turned and began sprinting through the crystals, desperately hoping to reach a space open enough for him to transform and drive away. “Bye!” he called over his shoulder.

“Please, let me touch you!” Hound cried, running just behind Bluestreak. Scrap, he was fast! “I need you! Please! Please, come back!”

With a lunge, Bluestreak burst out of the close-grown crystals of the grove and into a more sparsely-grown area. He transformed, folding himself around the torbuk frame, and pealed out. His tires spun on the loose gravel.

The green mech – Hound – had also transformed and was still close on his tail. Bluestreak swore to himself as he drove. This was not someone just looking for a frag. This was something more. The powder the vendor had sold him... Slag. 

_Would you like me to include some infatuation as well? the vendor asked._

Bluestreak’s engine snarled.

As he drove, weaving between stands of crystals, Bluestreak searched his memory for what he knew of infatuation charms. It turned out he knew very little. They were not part of his training, since they had no military use, and the strict laws controlling magic meant that they were not discussed in open conversation. He had no idea how to counteract or reverse it, nor did he know how long it lasted.

He tore around another cluster of crystals, growling as Hound took the corner just as quickly as he did. This mech was fast, and more agile than he looked. He’d heard impressive things about the Prime’s Rangers when speaking to mechs at the waystations, but had never had the chance to see them in action. Until now.

Quickly considering his options, Bluestreak skidded to a stop and transformed back into root mode. Hound transformed while still in motion, rolling to his pedes and jogging towards Bluestreak with his arms outstretched.

The mech was still addled. Bluestreak hoped he could restrain the Ranger without hurting him too much. 

“You are so fast! You took those corners so well! And your alt mode is just as lovely as your face,” Hound said as he approached. His hand reached out. “Please... I just want to touch.”

“Fine,” said Bluestreak, holding still. His optics locked onto Hound’s, making sure that the green mech did not see him reaching into his compartments. “You can touch me.”

“Oh... Thank you. Thank you!” Hound vented heavily, walking right up to Bluestreak. He brushed a finger gently against Bluestreak’s cheek. “So beautiful,” he murmured, bringing another hand up to rest on Bluestreak’s chest plate. “Surely you were created by Primus himself.” 

Laughing, Bluestreak said, “I can assure you I was not.” He grasped the hand against his face and brought it to his lips, his optics never leaving Hound’s. The green mech’s fans roared sudenly, and his attention was fixated on Bluestreak’s face. “So, now that you’ve touched me, tell me what else you’d like to do.”

“Oh..” Hound’s engine stalled. “I... I’d like to...”

As Hound stammered, Bluestreak gathered the mech’s other hand, and brought them together. “Tell me,” he murmured as he wrapped a length of wire around Hound’s wrists, binding them firmly.

“I want to... kiss you,” the Ranger said, his optics roving over Bluestreak’s face.

“That’s just a different kind of touching, right?” Bluestreak said, reaching into his compartments again. He tilted his helm, fanning his door wings out behind him in a display to draw the Ranger’s gaze. He sensed that the mech’s core temperature was soaring, despite his fans running at full speed. “Is there anything else you’d like to do?”

Hound’s face plates tinged blue as they heated. “To... I want to.... To frag you. Interface with you. Please. It’d be so... You’re so...” he slurred, leaning towards Bluestreak as if to press his face into the Praxian’s neck cords.

“So I’ve been told,” Bluestreak said soothingly, and then jammed a cleaning cloth into Hound’s mouth. He quickly wrapped a length of rubber hosing across Hound’s mouth and tied it behind his helm as a gag.

Hound’s optics widened, and he squeaked as Bluestreak pushed him into a kneeling position at his pedes. Bluestreak sighed as the Ranger nuzzled his face against Bluestreak’s groin. “Ah, mech, stop that,” he muttered, pushing Hound away slightly. “I’m just going to see what you’ve got in your compartments. Please stop wriggling.”

The Ranger stilled, pliant in Bluestreak’s hands. Bluestreak knelt and searched the mech’s compartments. Hound had only a spare power clip for his rifle, a field repair kit, and a knife. “You Rangers travel light, hmm?” Bluestreak said, and then exvented when Hound rolled his helm along his chest plate, moaning slightly. He pushed the Ranger away. “If you weren’t charmed, I would have kicked your aft by now,” Bluestreak growled.

At Bluestreak’s threat, Hound nodded enthusiastically, making a pleased hum. 

Bluestreak rolled his optics.

Hound wore a rather nice cloak, nicer than the one that Bluestreak wore, but Bluestreak paused before switching them. He needed a way to get this mech to stop mooning after him, and the only alchemist he knew of was the one who had sold him the wrong powder in the first place.

“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble already,” Bluestreak said, hauling the Ranger to his pedes. He clipped his door wings against his back and arranged his cloak to cover them. “And I have a feeling that you’re not done yet.” He nudged Hound forward. “Come on... Let’s get you uncharmed.”

* * *

Bluestreak strode purposefully through the market crowds, plowing his way through them with a grim expression. He half-dragged, half-pulled a cloaked figure alongside him, his hand firmly gripping the other mech’s elbow.

He walked directly up to the small grey tent and pointed a finger at the old vendor behind the table. “You sold me the wrong goods,” he hissed, jerking the cloaked mech to a stop beside him.

The vendor bent slightly to look under the hood of the cloak. The green mech stared out at him with wide optics. The deep hood did a fairly good job of concealing the gag in his mouth. The mech’s hands were suspiciously held front of him with a scrap of cloth wrapped around them. The vendor straightened and gazed at Bluestreak with calm optics. “Is there a problem, friend?”

“I asked for recharge powder, and you gave me that infatuation powder you were trying to sell me instead,” Bluestreak hissed. “Now this poor mech won’t leave me alone!”

His optics widening, the ancient mech held up his hands and said, “I’m afraid you have the wrong merchant, friend. I only sell exotic spices and flavourings from faraway lands.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Only the Prime’s own alchemists are permitted to make and sell charms like you describe.” 

Bluestreak’s optics widened in fury. He growled, “I used the powder you sold me! I demand my money back, and I need some way to fix this!” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the cloaked mech.

Calmly straightening the bottles on his table, the vendor said, “And using illegally purchased charms will also get you into trouble with the Prime’s Guard, should they find out.”

Bluestreak lowered his voice and snapped, “I am fully aware of that. And this mech is one of the Prime’s Rangers!” He jerked the cloaked mech’s elbow in emphasis.

With a guileless smile, the vendor said, “Well then, you’re in a heap of scrap, aren’t you?” He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Please, move along. You are blocking my spices from being seen.”

Bluestreak stared at the old mech in disbelief, his frame trembling in barely contained rage. After a long klik he exvented slowly. No matter how much he wanted to kick over this old fool’s stand and beat him, doing so would not help him in the least. In fact, it would draw attention to him, and that was the last thing he needed right now. Realizing that he needed to find another way out of this, Bluestreak turned to leave. “Come on,” he muttered, yanking on the cloaked mech’s arm.

“Oh! One thing, friend,” the old vendor called. When Bluestreak turned to glare at him, the vendor gave him a small smile and said, “I’ve heard... Just mechs talking, you know... That an infatuation charm only lasts a groon or so. No counter-charm is needed because it wears off so quickly.” His optics flicked to the cloaked mech, then back to Bluestreak. “Something to look into, perhaps?” He turned to greet a customer who had just walked up to his table. “Spices for your fuel! Can I interest you in the freshest calcite crystals from Vos?”

Bluestreak turned and stared at the cloaked mech. It had been more than ten groons since he’d thrown the dust into the Ranger’s face. If the effect wore off in only one groon...

He peered into the cloak’s hood, and met Hound’s wide optics. The mech grunted something through the gag, and nodded frantically.

Staring at the green mech, Bluestreak felt cold realization wash over him like a frozen methane storm. He’d been dragging a gagged, bound, and fully aware Ranger around with him for almost a full cycle.

Bluestreak was in a heap of scrap, indeed.

Without another word, Bluestreak hauled on the mech’s arm and dragged him back through the rows of stalls. He stopped at a stand and purchased two cubes of heated energon, then continued cutting his way through the crowds.

Finally they reached the edge of the market. Bluestreak kept walking up the road, then ducked into a stand of crystals. He led Hound off the road, back into the crystals to where he’d stashed the torbuk carcass.

The frame was still there, safely hidden between two tall crystals. Blowing a vent of air in relief, Bluestreak pushed Hound down to sit on a rock and crouched before him. He looked up into the Ranger’s face earnestly. “If I take off your gag, will you yell for help?” he asked.

Hound shook his helm. 

With a slow exvent, Bluestreak untied the gag and removed it from Hound’s mouth. The green mech worked his jaw for a moment, then looked at Bluestreak uncertainly. 

Bluestreak unwrapped the cloth from Hound’s hands as well, but left them wired together. He pressed a cube of the energon into the other mech’s hand. “Here. Neither of us has fueled since... we met. I’m not untying your hands just yet,” he said quietly. “But you should at least be able to drink.”

Hound nodded and brought the cube to his mouth awkwardly, gulping at it. Bluestreak watched the mech drink, guilt chewing at him. Hound looked ravenous. Maybe he had been on his way to fuel when he discovered Bluestreak and his kill in the grove. Finally, Hound lowered the cube from his mouth, cradling it in his lap and staring at it.

Bluestreak shifted to kneel on the ground in front of the green mech. “So. I take it the charm wore off a while ago?”

Hound nodded. “Yes.” He glanced up at Bluestreak and then back down to his hands. “But... You’d already bound and gagged me.”

Bluestreak stared at the Ranger for a long moment. Then he said, “I... I am so sorry. I’m sorry you caught me in the grove. I just intended to take one torbuk and disappear again. I’m sorry for the effect that charm had on you. It was just supposed to put you into recharge. I’m sorry that I continued dragging you around against your will after the charm wore off. I had no idea that you had your senses back again.” He laughed mirthlessly, wincing as his door wings tried to twitch. “I’m sorry about all of this.” He ran a finger around the edge of his cube, then finished drinking it.

When he looked up again, Hound was staring at him with a sad smile on his lips. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “I know it was a charm, but I’m... appalled at how I acted.” He frowned. “I remember all of it.” Before Bluestreak could say anything, he continued. “And... I want to thank you for treating me so well, even after the things I said and did... Or tried to do.”

Shocked, Bluestreak stared at the green mech. “Thank me?” he repeated incredulously. “For what? Drugging you? Tying you up? Hauling you kilometers from your post?”

With a look of pure honesty, Hound said, “The easiest thing for you to do would have been to slit my fuel line and leave me for dead. Or truss me up at the side of the road and leave me there. Either of those would have solved your... problem.” He smiled wanly at Bluestreak. “But instead you kept me from hurting you or myself, and you tried to find a counter-charm to cure me. You didn’t know that the charm had worn off.” He shrugged. “You did your best to try to fix what you’d done. And... I appreciate that. I thank you for your kindness.”

Bluestreak stared at Hound, dumbfounded. He’d been caught committing a crime against the Prime, drugged one of his Rangers, and effectively kidnapped him... And the Ranger was **thanking** him for being kind? Finally, he sputtered, “Are you sure you’re not still under the effects of the charm?”

Laughing, Hound said, “I’ve been free of its effects for quite a while, and I’ve had a lot of time to think about what happened. And time to think about you.” He glanced away, then back again. “First, what you did... You don’t have the spark of a criminal. A true thief would have left me for dead and never looked back.”

Frowning, Bluestreak said, “It’s not your fault that you caught me. I wasn’t about to compound my crime by murdering you.”

“Spoken like someone with a pure spark,” Hound said with a little smile. “And second... If you come back to Iacon with me, and ask for forgiveness, I swear that I will do my best to see that you are well-treated.” 

Blowing air from his vents, Bluestreak sat back on his heels. “No. That’s out of the question. I’d intended to stay in Iacon for a while, maybe earn a little money, but...” He glanced around, making sure they were still alone. “I am going to let you go... And then I will need to move on. Again.” He grimaced. 

“Stay!” Hound leaned forward urgently, bringing his still-bound hands up to brush Bluestreak’s chest. When Bluestreak glanced down, he yanked his hands away again. “Please. I...” He exvented. “Maybe I am still under the effects of the charm, or maybe it leaves... lingering effects. But I... I want to spend more time with you. I know you have a good spark. I can feel it.” He gave Bluestreak a pleading look. “Please let me help you out of the trouble you’re in.” 

“I’m a... a thief now. A poacher. And I’m a wanted mech. You’re one of the Prime’s Rangers.” Bluestreak gave Hound a lopsided smile. “I’m afraid that not even friends is on the table. This isn’t a fairy tale.”

“Then stop stealing!” Hound said, his tone insistent. “I saw you take that torbuk down. You’re an excellent shot. The Rangers are always looking for good sharpshooters. I will vouch for you, and the Prime will –“

Bluestreak jumped to his pedes and turned away, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Now I know you’re still charmed. You expect me to believe that the Rangers will take an admitted criminal into their ranks just like that?” He clapped his hands together sharply, then shook his helm. “You’re glitched.”

Hound tilted his helm and narrowed his optics. “I suppose that the bards haven’t been able to carry the stories of the Iacon Rangers into someplace like Praxus.” Hound took in Bluestreak’s cautious expression and continued. “The Rangers’ ranks are full of defectors and reformed criminals. I came here after fleeing the mines of Nyon.” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I swore allegiance to the Prime, because he treated me like a fully sentient being, and not a drone to be broken."

“So the Prime gives criminals weapons and lets them guard his lands?” Bluestreak shook his helm. “I’d heard Iacon was a little funny, but I had no idea how true those stories were.”

“The Prime... He can tell who is trustworthy, and who isn’t. If I’m wrong, and you aren’t as good of a mech as I think... He will turn you away. But I don’t think he will.” Hound exvented. “The Prime also believes that those who choose their alliances are just as trustworthy – maybe more – as the ones who are born into it. He believes that every mech deserves a chance to atone for their mistakes.” When Bluestreak shook his helm, Hound added, “The Rangers have mechs from all over. We even have two Praxians.” Hound caught Bluestreak’s wary expression. “Remember, I saw your door wings.” He frowned slightly. “Binding them that way must hurt like slag.”

Bluestreak’s shoulder actuators throbbed in response. He stared at Hound for a moment, then said, “I can’t tell the Prime what I’m running from, or why. For all you know, I **am** a murderer. Maybe I’ve tortured mechs. Maybe I’m a sadistic glitch who likes stripping cables from mechs while they’re still online, and listening to them scream.”

Hound looked at Bluestreak with a calm expression. “I don’t believe that.”

“You’re an idealistic, charmed fool,” Bluestreak snapped. “You don’t even know my designation!”

“If I asked what it was, would you give me your real designation, or just the one you’re using?” Hound asked. When Bluestreak simply glared at him, Hound smiled. “A berth, fuel, and once you’ve paid back the value of the torbuk, a steady paycheck. And the Prime defends his Rangers like they were originated in Iacon.” Hound held up his bound hands. “Just come talk to him. If it doesn’t feel right, you can move on.”

Bluestreak stared at Hound, then whirled on a pede and paced a few meters away. His processor was telling him to run. Let the Ranger go, take the torbuk carcass, and run for the Polyhex border. 

His spark simply pulsed weakly. He was so tired of running.

Finally, Bluestreak turned to Hound. “Fine. Take me to your Prime.”


	3. Iacon’s Rangers

Every survival imperative in his code, honed over his ten vorn on the run, was telling Bluestreak to fight and flee. He gritted his dentae and walked steadily next to Hound and between the two armed guards that flanked them.

It was a role-reversal from earlier in the cycle. Bluestreak’s hands were wired together, while Hound led him by the elbow. They had returned to the grove where Hound had discovered Bluestreak so that Hound could retrieve his rifle, and the Ranger carried both of their weapons. One of the guards carried the torbuk carcass.

At least Bluestreak had been allowed to keep his door wings bound and covered as he was led through the city and into the citadel.

However, the guards had confiscated his knives (including the one with the sharpness charm that Bluestreak had applied a vorn ago), the spare power clip for his rifle, and the two bags of dust. They left him the small pot of the gel component for the protection charm; the secondary charm on the pot itself did its job to disguise itself as a wax.

As they walked further and further into the Iacon citadel, Bluestreak pushed down the rising sense of panic in his spark. He glanced at Hound. The green mech caught his optics and smiled gently. Bluestreak took a deep vent to calm himself.

Finally they stopped before an unassuming door deep within the citadel, where one of the guards knocked. “Enter!” called a deep voice from within.

The door swung open, and Bluestreak and Hound entered the room. The guard that had been carrying the torbuk placed it on the floor, and then their escort took up positions on either side of the door. 

A large red and blue mech sat at a desk inside, while a heavy, well-built red mech stood to his left. “Hound,” said the standing mech. “It’s good to see you. Blurr will be happy to hear you’re back.” The red mech frowned. “He reported that you split off to investigate somethin’ you’d smelled, but when you didn’t return to the rendezvous on time...” He gave Hound a stern look. “We were just about to send out a search party for you when we heard you was returnin’.”

“Prime. General. I am glad to be back.” Hound bowed his head for a moment, then looked back up at the two mechs. “I’ll apologize to Blurr when we’re done here. I’ve learned my lesson about splitting off from my patrol partner.”

The seated mech’s optics had not left Bluestreak since they had entered the room. “And who have you brought with you, Hound?” he asked. His voice was so deep that it seemed to resonate inside Bluestreak’s frame.

Hound glanced at Bluestreak. “This mech was the cause of my delay. I caught him draining a torbuk that he had killed in your reserve. Then he used a charm to overpower me.” Hound gestured to the torbuk frame on the floor, and then began telling the story.

The green mech did not leave out a single detail that might spare Bluestreak from further punishment. He told how Bluestreak had used a charm in an attempt to get away from him, how Bluestreak had bound Hound’s hands and gagged him when he discovered that he had been given the wrong charm, how Bluestreak had dragged him to the vendor to try to get the charm reversed... He told them everything. 

As Hound spoke, Bluestreak felt his tanks churn. Coming here was a mistake. He needed to get out of here. His optics darted around the room, searching for a way to bolt as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Then he looked at the seated mech again, and met his optics. The calm blue of the larger mech’s optics seemed to bore into his very spark.

This was the Prime. His people believed he had mystical powers, and could gauge the worth of a spark just by looking at a mech. Bluestreak had always considered that to be superstitious nonsense, stories told by the Iacon priests to keep the people in line. That was before he had the Prime looking directly at him. Weighing him. Judging him.

Bluestreak could see how those stories had gotten started and propagated.

Finally, Hound finished his recount of what happened, from the moment he’d spotted Bluestreak creeping through the grove, to Bluestreak agreeing to return to the citadel with him. Hound placed Bluestreak’s rifle on the desk, and the standing red mech picked it up and examined it closely.

A klik of silence passed. Then the Prime quietly asked, “What should we call you?” 

The wording of the question was not lost on Bluestreak. The Prime did not ask what his designation was, but what he wished to be called. He met the Prime’s optics and said, “Bluestreak, sir.” He bowed his head.

“Leave us.”

Bluestreak looked up to see the Prime waving the two guards out of the room, and heard the door close. 

The red mech set Bluestreak’s rifle back down on the desk. “The gun is Praxian design, military-grade. It’s an older model, but it’s been well-kept,” he said. He looked at Bluestreak. “They don’t sell those abroad, and they’re real sticky about lettin’ them leave Praxus. I’d like to know where he got it from.”

Nodding, the Prime looked at Hound. “I believe there is something you have left out?” he asked.

“Yes, Prime,” said Hound. “He is a full-framed Praxian, and binds his door wings to hide them.” 

Bluestreak’s spark skipped a rotation. The green mech glanced at Bluestreak again, and smiled encouragingly. Bluestreak could not see a hint of anything sinister in Hound’s expression, but that did not soothe his anxiety.

Hound had no idea of how vulnerable Bluestreak was making himself in by allowing himself to be exposed this way.

The Prime gestured to Hound. “Please... Remove his bonds. Bluestreak, if you wish, you may unbind your door wings.”

Hound removed the wires from Bluestreak’s wrists, then stepped back. After a brief hesitation, Bluestreak unclipped his door wings and allowed them to stretch back up to their natural position behind his shoulders. He gritted his dentae to keep the moan of relief from escaping his vocalizier. He didn’t see any sense in hiding his door wings from the Prime now. 

The Prime considered him for another klik. “Will you tell me what you are hiding from, Bluestreak? Why do you bind your door wings, and risk imprisonment to steal game from the people of Iacon?” His question was delivered with a gentleness that seemed out of place coming from such a large frame.

Bluestreak shook his helm. “No,” he said, emphasizing the word with a flick of his door wings, and he bit back a whimper. Oh, Primus, even that slight movement felt so natural and good, even with the pain that shot through the hinges. “I cannot tell you.”

“And where’d you get the rifle from?” the red mech asked.

“It was a coming-of-age gift from my sire,” Bluestreak said, meeting the red mech’s look. 

The red mech snorted and looked as though he was about to snap a retort, but the Prime held up a hand and quieted him.

“I believe that Hound’s assessment of your actions and intent was correct. I can tell that you have a good, kind spark. I know that you are not truly a criminal, regardless of what you may have done in the past.” The Prime’s gaze held Bluestreak’s. “If you wish to make a clean start, I give you a chance to wipe your slate clean. I offer you a second chance, and freedom if you choose it.” 

Bluestreak’s door wings tipped backwards. “You do not know what is on that slate, sir,” he said. 

“That is true.” The Prime’s expression was unreadable. “But it does not matter. I know what is in your spark.” 

Taking a deep vent, Bluestreak stilled his door wings. This Prime was either a fool, or he really could divine a mech’s core programming. 

Bluestreak didn’t know which one made him more nervous.

“Sir.” Bluestreak spread his door wings, pulling in as much information as he could. Beside him, Hound was alert but calm. The large red mech standing next to the Prime had his attention fully trained on Bluestreak. The two guards that had accompanied them were standing just outside the door. The windows behind the desk were clearsteel; they would be impossible for Bluestreak to jump through. 

The Prime sat quietly, waiting for Bluestreak’s answer.

A second chance? Bluestreak did not really need a second chance. He knew he could not really live a life of crime. But freedom? Was it possible that the Prime could really offer him that? Even if... Even when he discovered what Bluestreak was seeking freedom from?

Flicking his door wings apprehensively, Bluestreak tried again. “Praxus... The crown... If they discover that I am here, they will stop at nothing to get me back.” He stared back at the Prime. “It may not be safe for you to harbour me.” 

The Prime did not move, but his optics brightened. “If you join the Rangers and swear allegiance to Iacon, I will defend you as if you were one of Iacon’s own.” He stared back at Bluestreak. “No one, especially someone with a true and good spark like yours, should be forced to do anything they do not wish to do.”

Bluestreak stared at the Prime, considering. What did the Prime know? Was it possible he suspected who Bluestreak was? 

Pushing down the alarms that rang in his processor, Bluestreak lowered his helm and came to a decision. “Sir. Please. I would like a... Another chance.”

 _I would like a chance to completely leave my past behind me, once and for all,_ Bluestreak thought.

“Very good,” said the Prime. He turned to the red mech standing next to him. “Ironhide, please see to our new recruit.” He looked back to Bluestreak. “And Bluestreak... Welcome to Iacon.”

* * *

Bluestreak was assigned a room with three other mechs. The two brothers, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, and a Velocitronian who called himself Knock Out made him feel welcome for his first night in the Ranger barracks.

Knock Out seemed especially taken with Bluestreak. “Well, well, well,” he said after he first saw Bluestreak. “A Praxian! And such a pretty one at that. This is room now officially has the best-looking mechs in the barracks. And Sideswipe.”

Sideswipe tossed an empty energon cube at Knock Out in response.

Bluestreak laughed before catching himself. He reminded himself that despite the Prime’s big words, Bluestreak was still in danger of being identified.

Then again... It had been ten vorn. Maybe they weren’t looking for him anymore.

He quashed that thought. Thoughts like that were how he would end up being found and dragged back to Praxus.

In the morning, Ironhide took him to a shooting range behind the citadel’s grounds. “Hound said you seem to be a pretty good shot. I want to see if he was right.” He handed Bluestreak a rifle. “Let me see what you can do. If you can hit all of the first four, I’ll be impressed.”

There were eight targets in total set up at 250 meter increments, with the last one being two kilometers away. Resetting his optics, Bluestreak looked at the rifle Ironside had given him. “I’d prefer to use my own,” he said.

“You’re not getting your weapon back until you’ve sworn allegiance to the Prime or you decide to leave, kid. Besides, I want to see what you can do with our equipment.” Ironside gestured impatiently. “Get shootin’.”

Bluestreak sighted down the barrel of the rifle, then asked, “Only the first four?”

“Don’t get cocky, kid,” Ironhide said gruffly.

The first target was sparkling’s play; Bluestreak was sure he could have hit it with his optics closed. He hit each of the next three targets dead center, then looked up at Ironhide. “Shall I continue?”

“Yeah, keep goin’,” Ironhide said. “But the rifle’s only rated to one-and-a-half kilometers.”

Fanning his door wings, Bluestreak took a careful assessment of the wind, and added that data to what he’d learned of the rifle’s aim in his first four shots. He fired four more times, hitting each target, the last one ringing off the target that was two kilometers away. After hearing the round strike the final target, he lifted his optic from the scope. “Scrap. My last shot was off center.”

He suppressed a grin as Ironhide stared at the targets, an expression of disbelief plastered across his face. Then the large red mech looked down at Bluestreak. “All right, so you’re pretty good at shooting something that’s not moving. Let’s see how you do with a moving target.”

On the next range, Bluestreak again was flawless. Ironhide finally had the mech operating the pulling machine launch eight targets into the air at once, and Bluestreak took them all down just as they reached the tops of their arcs.

That earned him a grunt. “Hound was right. You are pretty good,” Ironhide said grudgingly. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

Bluestreak cradled the rifle in his arm casually and said, “I picked it up, here and there.”

“Like frag you did.” The red mech held out his hand for the rifle, which Bluestreak returned. “Let’s see how you do in hand-to-hand.” As they walked to one of the training rings, Bluestreak heard him mutter, “Here and there, my shiny metal aft.”

Bluestreak was not as adept in melee, however. Sideswipe was larger than him, and was much heavier. Bluestreak was able to keep Sideswipe at bay for several kliks simply by virtue of being more agile, but eventually Sideswipe managed to pin him to the ground.

“You’re not bad, even if I did pin you” Sideswipe said with a grin as he helped Bluestreak to his pedes. “But you seemed to be on the defensive the whole time.”

“I never go looking for fights,” Bluestreak said. “All I’ve ever needed to do is defend myself in waystation brawls, and that’s more about not getting hit rather than doing the hitting.”

“Enough gabbing! Hound, you’re in,” called Ironhide.

Falling into his starting crouch, Bluestreak faced the green mech. Hound smiled at him, then lunged forward.

Hound was nowhere near as heavy as Sideswipe, but he was almost as agile as Bluestreak. As he managed to get Hound into a shoulder hold, Bluestreak said, “I’m glad I didn’t have to fight you in the grove. You’re a lot tougher than you look.”

“So are you,” said Hound, and twisted in Bluestreak’s grasp. Bluestreak suddenly felt his gyros spinning as he was thrown, and he landed hard on his back with Hound on top of him. 

Hound grinned down at Bluestreak for a moment before releasing him and helping him back to his pedes. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked.

“No,” Bluestreak said. Then he hissed as he flexed his wings and felt a painful pop in his upper left wing joint. 

His optics wide, Hound said, “I did hurt you! Ironhide!” He ignored Bluestreak’s protests and said, “Something happened to his shoulder when I threw him. I’m going to take him to Ratchet.”

Ironhide waved him off. “He needs to get a baseline maintenance check anyway. Figures he’d get hurt his first cycle here... Ratchet’s gonna have my helm,” he muttered as Hound led Bluestreak away.

“You really didn’t hurt me,” Bluestreak said, following behind Hound. “It’s been sore for a while, so it wasn’t anything you did.”

Hound shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. And you didn’t see your face... It looked like it really hurt you bad,” he said, his optics clouding with worry. 

“I’ve had worse,” Bluestreak said truthfully, but Hound still beckoned him forward. He led Bluestreak into a small building near the barracks. “Ratchet!” he called as they entered the building. 

A red and white mech with a white chevron peered around the corner. “I’m here. Who’s hurt?”

“Bluestreak. He’s a new recruit. We were wrestling and I threw him, and now his shoulder hurts,” Hound said. 

The medic frowned and looked Bluestreak up and down before pointing at a medical slab. “Sit down.” 

Bluestreak settled himself on the slab, not taking his optics off of Ratchet. “It’s not my shoulder,” he said. “I think it’s... It’s the joint in my door wing.”

Ratchet nodded. “Let me take a look. Can you loosen your plating slightly?” When Bluestreak complied, Ratchet began examining the cables and wires just under Bluestreak’s armor.

“Ironhide also said that he needs the baseline maintenance check,” Hound said as Ratchet ran his digits across Bluestreak’s door wing hinges.

“He’s supposed to send recruits here before he starts damaging them,” Ratchet growled. 

Bluestreak’s optics stayed on Ratchet and his white chevron. After a klik, Ratchet noticed Bluestreak’s attention and grunted. “You can stop staring. Yes, I’m part Praxian.”

“I mentioned we had two Praxians in the Rangers,” Hound said. “Ratchet is one of them. I can introduce you to Skids tomorrow.”

Ratchet met Bluestreak’s look and said, “I’ve been gone from Praxus for a long time.” He pried into the plating next to the right door hinge, frowning when Bluestreak flinched. “Iacon’s my home now.” He waggled a digit at Bluestreak’s face. “And I hope you don’t subscribe to any of the slag about purity and the like that comes out of the priests there.”

“I can assure you I do not,” Bluestreak said, making sure to keep his tone neutral.

Ratchet finished his inspection of Bluestreak’s frame and stepped back in front of him. “So, you’ve really fragged up your door wings,” he said. “And this damage isn’t from just a simple throw,” he added, tossing a glance at Hound, and the green mech seemed to relax slightly. Ratchet looked back to Bluestreak. “The cables in your shoulder actuators are badly stretched, and a few are almost frayed right through. It’s a wonder you can move them at all. What have you been doing?”

Glancing at Hound, Bluestreak said, “I was binding my wings to hide them.”

“For how long?” Ratchet asked, pulling a tool out of a nearby cabinet and making an adjustment in Bluestreak’s left hinge mount.

“A long time.” Bluestreak ground his dentae as Ratchet put pressure on the painful joint. Giving a timeframe might help someone identify how long he’d been on the run, which might lead to someone putting bits of evidence together and figure out who...

Ratchet glared at him. “As your medic, I need to know the details. I will keep it confidential, but I need to know so that I can make an informed decision on how to treat you.”

Hound stood up and turned. “I can leave so you have some privacy,” he said.

“Wait!” The word escaped Bluestreak’s vocalizer before he even realized he wanted the green mech to stay. From the moment Bluestreak had set pede in Iacon, Hound had been a calm, steadying presence... One that he didn’t want to lose now. “Please. Stay.” He watched as Hound sat back down, then turned back to Ratchet. “Ten vorn. I’ve been binding my wings almost daily for ten vorn.”

The medic’s optics widened in shock. “You’re lucky those cables haven’t frayed through vorn ago!” he exclaimed. He shook his helm and went back to work on the hinge. “I’m going to tighten up the parts of the joint that have worked loose. Your self-repair should finish the repairs on the cables, but only if you stop pulling your wings down into such an unnatural angle.” Ratchet’s tone took on a scolding note. “So no more binding your wings down, not for a long time… Hopefully never again. Those hinges were never meant to be pulled in that direction, and you risk doing permanent damage to them.” He looked at Bluestreak sternly. “Do you understand?”

Bluestreak nodded. “Don’t bind my wings. Yes, sir.” The thought of not being able to move his door wings at all filled him with dread, until he remembered that his original plan was to have them removed completely. Although, if he was being honest with himself, the thought of removing his wings also made him incredibly uneasy, but he had seen it as a necessary part of his plan to disappear. The thought of being able to start over as an Iacon Ranger with his door wings intact made his spark leap. 

Then he firmly pushed that feeling down again. He still felt far from safe.

After Ratchet finished the adjustments, he gave Bluestreak a final admonishment to not strain his door wings, and told him to come back in a deca-cycle to see how the self-repair was doing and to complete the maintenance check. Then he sent Bluestreak and Hound away. “And tell Ironhide to send his recruits to me **before** he starts throwing them around!” he called after them.

Hound walked Bluestreak back to the barracks. “I’m glad that you’re getting them fixed,” the green mech said, glancing at the wings bobbing behind Bluestreak. “Not being able to use them was probably really uncomfortable.”

“It was like trying to go about your day with a blindfold over your optics,” Bluestreak admitted. He carefully stretched his wings, soaking in the sensor input that he had been missing for so long.

“And I’m glad it wasn’t me that hurt you,” Hound said. “I’d hate to have hurt a new friend so soon after meeting him!”

Bluestreak glanced at Hound quickly. “Friend?” he asked.

“Well, sure,” Hound said with a smile. Then he looked at Bluestreak and the smile fell off his face again. “I guess? I’d like to consider you a friend.”

Friend. How long had it been since Bluestreak had had a real friend? Someone he could confide in? Someone he could trust? 

He realized it had been a very long time.

“Friend.” Bluestreak nodded, then smiled at Hound. “Sure. I’d like that, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Ratchet being part Praxian... *authorial hand-wave* 
> 
> AUs, am I right? XD
> 
> When I first started reading MTMTE, I didn't know the characters very well at all. I focused on facial features to tell characters apart, and I spent half of issue 1 thinking Prowl and Ratchet were the same character. I finally figured it out (after being Very Confused), had a good laugh at myself, and carried on. So when I needed a half Praxian for this story, Ratchet was the first 'bot I thought of. :)


	4. The News

The next cycle, Hound found Bluestreak while he was getting his morning fuel ration. “I promised to introduce you to Skids. He’s over there.”

Skids looked up from the data pad he was reading when Hound called for him. “This is Bluestreak. He’s a new recruit, and I said I’d show him around,” Hound said. 

Skid’s optics widened when he saw Bluestreak. He took in Bluestreak’s chevron and door wings for a long moment. Then he tilted his helm down, and lowered his door wings to match the tilt of his helm. “Good day cycle,” he said. 

“Same,” said Bluestreak, lowering his own door wings in greeting. He looked at Skids curiously. Usually, on part Praxians the door wings were the identifying feature that was lost with the first outcross. Skids, however, had broad door wings, but no chevron. 

The blue mech’s lips twitched into a small smile when he noticed Bluestreak’s openly curious look. “I will not ask your story, if you do not ask mine,” he said quietly. 

Bluestreak nodded. “Agreed,” he said. 

“Skids is one of our strategists,” Hound said. 

“Strategist?” Bluestreak asked. “What strategy is there for roaming around in the wild catching thieves?”

“Patrol of the Prime’s lands is our main duty, but not our only one,” Hound said. The green mech drew himself to his full height. “We are responsible for safeguarding the Prime whenever he leaves the citadel, and accompany him when he drives with the army on any manoeuvers. It’s one of our most important functions.” A note of pride lit Hound’s voice. “We also act as honour guards for any foreign envoys who come to Iacon to visit the Prime. We guard them from the moment they cross Iacon’s borders to the moment they leave.”

Bluestreak frowned. “Then what does the Prime’s Guard do?”

“They act as home guard, protecting the citadel and Iacon City,” Skids said. 

Bluestreak nodded. It was a much different organization than Praxus had, but then again, Praxus put a huge emphasis on its military. Meanwhile, Iacon’s entire governmental structure seemed to revolve around its dedication to the Prime, and to Primus. Beside the citadel, the second largest building in Iacon City was the cathedral.

Sunstreaker took Bluestreak to visit the cathedral his second cycle in Iacon. The large yellow mech was so different from his twin: quiet where Sideswipe was boisterous, and thoughtful where Sideswipe was brash. While both brothers were equally dedicated to their service to the Prime, Sunstreaker was utterly devoted to his worship of Primus.

“Mechs from all over Iacon City come here to meditate and pray,” Sunstreaker said as they approached the cathedral. “I like coming here every few cycles just to center myself.” He glanced at Bluestreak. “I can get really... angry sometimes. Sitting quietly in the presence of Primus helps.”

Bluestreak looked at Sunstreaker and tried to imagine him not being quiet, or even just angry. He had only known the yellow mech for a few cycles, but he seemed to be one of the most serene mechs that he had met so far.

The interior of the cathedral was impressive. The arched ceiling stretched far above Bluestreak’s helm, buttressed by supports of marble and crystal. At the center of the open space was a huge statue of Primus. The depiction of the deity was common in most places outside of Praxus: a slim mech with the wings of a seeker, and long finials that swept back from his helm. The statue’s hands were stretched out as if to gather his followers to his chest plate.

Following Sunstreaker’s lead, Bluestreak knelt on one of the cushions arranged on the floor around the base of the statue. Sunstreaker bowed his helm, resting his hands on his knees.

Bluestreak looked up at the statue. The statue itself was carved from marble. The god’s optics were cut from blue crystal, and gleamed in the lights of the cathedral. Even though he had been gone from Praxus for ten vorn, displays like this still seemed extravagant to him. Surely the effort and money used to create such a huge statue, or even the cathedral, could be better used elsewhere.

It seemed that the stories about Iacon that had made their way past the walls of Praxus had some truth to them.

Sunstreaker sat motionless for almost a full groon, his head bowed and his optics offline. Bluestreak copied him, filtering through the information that his wing sensors provided. Eventually, he stopped even that, content to simply listen to the shush of pedes on the floor as mechs came and went. By the time Sunstreaker finally stirred, onlining his optics and climbing to his pedes, Bluestreak felt... calm. Quiet. Content.

Maybe Sunstreaker had a point in coming here to calm whatever storms brewed within him.

As they left the cathedral, Sunstreaker smiled at Bluestreak. “You take the oath of allegiance to become a Ranger in the cathedral at the pedes of Primus,” he said. 

Bluestreak flicked his door wings. “Right,” he said. “The oath.”

Sunstreaker ignored Bluestreak’s reticence. “Becoming one of the Prime’s Rangers is the best thing that ever happened to me. It saved my life,” he said with a deep sincerity.

* * *

Bluestreak had only been in Iacon for a deca-cycle when Ultra Magnus called him into his office. 

The commander of the Prime’s Guard was huge, just as large as Optimus Prime. But where the Prime’s optics had been patient and kind, Ultra Magnus’s were piercing. 

“You asked to see me, sir?” Bluestreak asked when he arrived at the office. Ultra Magnus was sitting at his desk, while a smaller mech, painted in red and white, was sitting across from the commander. There were no available seats, so Bluestreak remained standing. He assumed a parade rest stance without thinking.

“The Prime and General Ironhide have informed me that you admitted to using a charm on one of our Rangers,” Ultra Magnus said without preamble. 

Bluestreak kept his door wings still and his face plates impassive. “Yes, sir. I had meant to use recharge powder on him, but I was sold the incorrect powder. I ended up charming Hound with infatuation instead.”

“And I understand that when you were brought before the Prime, you had two bags of charm powder in your compartments?” Ultra Magnus seemed to be going down a mental checklist of questions.

“Yes, sir,” Bluestreak replied. He focused on keeping his ventilations calm and steady. He firmly reminded himself that the Prime himself had promised to ‘wipe his slate clean.’ 

“From where did you obtain these charms?” the commander asked.

“A vendor in the market outside of Iacon.” Bluestreak felt a quick flutter of excitement. Perhaps that crooked vendor would get his comeuppance after all.

“And are you aware that it is against Iaconian law to sell unlicensed charms? And that purchasing and using charms from an unlicensed alchemist are strongly discouraged?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know why?”

Bluestreak stared at the blue and red mech, confused. Why? It was against the law, that’s why. “Sir?”

“I am asking whether you understand why the Prime passed this order? Do you know why licenced charms are confiscated in Iacon?” Ultra Magnus’s voice was calm, but firm.

Rocking back on his heels in thought, Bluestreak considered the question. A moment later he answered, “Because if it’s unlicensed, you don’t know what you’re getting... As I found out.”

“Very good. I hope you will keep that in mind.” Ultra Magnus nodded at Bluestreak. He reached into his desk and pulled out a knife. He set the knife on the table. “Now... I’d like you to tell me about the charm on this knife.”

Bluestreak could not suppress the flick of his door wings as he recognized the knife. When he was living briefly in the wilderness of Altihex, Bluestreak had two knives lose their sharpness less than an orbital cycle after getting them. Having a sharp blade while living rough was essential, so he scrounged and cobbled together the materials he needed to apply the charm himself. Once charmed, the knife would only lose its edge if it was melted down, destroying the spell completely. But to most mechs, it would simply look like a regular knife. Somehow, someone had discovered the knife was charmed. 

Since they obviously had detected the charm, Bluestreak saw no point in lying. He said, “It’s a sharpness charm. The blade won’t lose its edge.”

The other mech sitting in the room had stayed quiet this whole time. At Bluestreak’s explanation, he tilted his helm and looked at Bluestreak with renewed interest.

“And from where did you purchase this charm?” Ultra Magnus asked.

Bluestreak lifted his door wings and helm high. “I made it myself, sir.”

Ultra Magnus’s optics widened slightly, and the other mech sat up straighter. “Really?” He picked up the knife and looked at the edge. “And where did you learn how to do that?”

Repeating his words from earlier, Bluestreak said, “I picked things up, sir. Here and there.”

“Ah, yes. Ironhide mentioned that you have picked up many interesting things ‘here and there.’” Ultra Magnus set the blade down again. “What other charms have you picked up from ‘here and there?’”

“Many common ones, sir. Protection. Warding. Restoration. Blade ward. Snare. Stone armor...” Bluestreak’s voice faltered as Ultra Magnus watched him silently, and the other mech leaned forward with a look of intense interest on his face. “There are more, I think? I’d... have to think about it to list them all, sir.”

The other mech finally spoke. “My designation is Perceptor. I am one of the Prime’s alchemists.” He stood up and picked up the knife from Ultra Magnus’s desk. “I would very much like to get a complete list of the charms you know, because this one,” he held up the knife, “as well as some of the other ones you just listed off the top of your processor, are unknown to us.”

“Really?” Bluestreak flicked one wing in surprise. The charms he had listed were some of the simplest ones he knew, and he just assumed that they were common around Cybertron. “Um, sure. I can make you a list.”

“Yes, a list, with components and cantrips for each, if needed.” Perceptor rattled off his words with excitement. He looked down at the knife again. “This information could be very valuable.”

“Absolutely. No problem,” Bluestreak said with a nod. 

As he left Ultra Magnus’s office, Bluestreak wondered what other secrets Praxus had been holding for itself for all those vorn.

* * *

The fact that the Rangers were responsible for patrolling and protecting the lands and mechs of Iacon made his next few days of assessment (or was it training? Bluestreak admitted he wasn’t sure) make more sense. 

Every few cycles Bluestreak found himself following along behind pairs of Rangers as they patrolled around the city. Every time they left the citadel, or roamed outside of the Iacon City walls on these patrols, it occurred to Bluestreak that he could just leave. Take off, leave Iacon behind, and make a run for the Polyhex border. 

But Bluestreak was not permitted to take a weapon with him on these patrols until he swore the oath of allegiance, and his own rifle was still in Ironhide’s possession, so he would be unarmed. He was also broke again. And besides... What purpose would there be in running? He had been promised safety. 

If only his processor would stop shrieking that he needed to keep running. Bluestreak worried that his processor had suffered some kind of burn-in from being on high alert for so long.

Two deca-cycles after Bluestreak arrived in Iacon, Hound stopped Bluestreak after he returned from patrol. “I was hoping to find you,” Hound said with an eager smile. “I wanted to see if you would like to go to Maccadams with me. There’s a bard in town, and he’s delivering at the pub tonight.”

“A bard?” Bluestreak’s door wings shot up. It had been over two vorn since he’d seen a bard, and even then he’d been so strapped for money that he wasn’t able to ask for any specific news. “Sure, I’d love to.”

Maccadams turned out to be a pub fairly close to the citadel. “This is sort of an unofficial hangout for Rangers and Guards, and anyone in the military,” Hound said as they entered the pub. “We all spend a lot of time here.”

“I think Sideswipe’s mentioned it a few times,” Bluestreak said, scanning the crowd. The place was full, but the densest part of the crowd was gathered around a red and yellow cassette carrier standing on the stage. 

“Yeah, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker come here a lot,” Hound said. He pulled Bluestreak towards an empty table in the back. “Let’s sit back here where it’s not too crowded. His cassettes will be around if you wanted to ask for anything.”

Bluestreak shrugged. “I can just listen to the highlights. I don’t have a lot of –“

Hound held up a hand to interrupt Bluestreak. “My treat, whatever you want, drinks or news,” he said.

“Thank you.” Bluestreak smiled and inclined his door wings towards Hound. “That is very kind of you.”

As Hound flagged down a waiter, Bluestreak focused his attention on the cassette carrier. The red and yellow mech suddenly let out a solid tone of sound, and the crowd quieted. 

“Greetings. My designation is Blaster, and I bring you news from the surrounding countries of Cybertron,” he said in a loud, clear voice that carried to every corner of the room. “And I have to begin with the bad news first. The borders of Nyon are being tightened. Chancellor Shockwave has announced this amidst an uprising in the slave mines, one that some sources say left hundreds deactivated.” A dismayed murmur swept through the crowd. “While it is still easy to enter Nyon – more grist for the mills, some say – leaving is more difficult. Traders and bards have an easier time than other classes, but even then it is fraught. I fear that soon it might be too dangerous for me to make that journey.

“Meanwhile, the economic situation in Tarn continues to deteriorate. The failure of its largest mine and a poor energon harvest is still causing ripples through all levels of society. Lord Megatron has sought the council of experts to find a new source of energon, or a new way to generate income for the kingdom. But until one or the other is secured, the kingdom is at risk of falling into chaos.

“And the Empire of Vos is becoming nervous at its precarious position. The Emperor does not admit this outright, of course, since to do so would admit weakness. They cast a nervous optic at their border with Nyon, where an unpredictable dictator could decide to roll across its border with an invasion force at any moment. On another border is Tarn, whose citizens are becoming more and more desperate for fuel and aid. And on its third side is the enigma of Praxus. Friend? Foe? Vos does not know. No one knows what is happening behind those ivory walls. So Vos seeks to make alliances with other kingdoms. Rumours say that Emperor Starscream will begin with Iacon, and then work his way east, seeking friends.”

The bard held out his arms. “Those are the highlights, my friends. Your generosity for my work is appreciated, and if you desire more news about something specific, please speak to me, or to one of my cassettes who will relay your request to me.” 

As the babble of the crowd rose once more, Bluestreak frowned down into the drink that Hound had bought for him. He looked up at Hound’s voice. “Not much about Praxus, huh?” the green mech asked.

Shrugging, Bluestreak said, “I wasn’t really expecting anything.”

Hound held up a hand, waving to one of the cassettes who was wandering around the pub. He caught the optics of the black and grey one, who began making his way towards their table. “Might as well ask, right?” he said.

Bluestreak held up a hand and said, “It’s all right, you don’t have to...”

“I promised, remember?” Hound said with a smile. He handed a five shanix chip to the cassette. “We’re looking for news about the goings on in Praxus.”

“Hmm. Not sure what Blaster has on that, but I’ll let him know,” the cassette chirped. Then he vanished back into the crowd.

Shaking his helm, Bluestreak said, “Really. You don’t have to do that.”

“Friends, remember?” Hound replied, and then glanced up as the red and yellow bard suddenly loomed over their table.

“Rewind told me we have a special request?” Blaster asked. He took in the two mechs sitting at the table, and his optics rested on Bluestreak and his door wings for a long moment. He crouched down, resting his arms on the table, and lowered his voice. “Something about news from Praxus?”

Hound nodded. “If you have anything.”

Blaster shook his helm. “No, I really don’t. They don’t let bards in, and any information coming out is so tightly controlled it’s difficult to tell the actual news from the propaganda.” He pulled out a chip. “I don’t feel right taking your money when I don’t have anything to give you in return.”

“Keep it,” Hound said. He glanced at Bluestreak. “The other news – especially from Nyon – was appreciated. And if you do get any news, remember us for your next visit.”

Giving them both a broad smile, Blaster nodded. “All right, then. Thank you kindly,” he said, standing up. “Until next time!” He gave them a small salute and moved on to the next table.

“It was worth a shot,” Hound said, finishing his drink. “Did you want another drink?”

“No, thank you,” Bluestreak said. He didn’t feel right drinking away Hound’s paycheck, even if it was offered.

Hound ordered another drink while Bluestreak nursed his first one. After the green mech’s drink arrived, Bluestreak watched Hound take a sip. “So how are you liking Iacon, and the Rangers so far?” Hound said with a smile.

“Fine, I guess,” Bluestreak said. “I’m still... I still can’t believe that they just take anyone who walks in off the street and says they want to be a Ranger.”

“But they don’t,” Hound said, tipping his helm to the side.

“They took me,” Bluestreak countered.

Hound frowned. “Because the Prime said you were worthy.”

“Worthy.” Bluestreak could not help rolling his optics. “He thought I looked like a nice mech, and figured that was good enough?”

Setting down his glass, Hound looked at Bluestreak with a serious expression. “He doesn’t find everyone worthy,” he said. “I thought you might be, because of how you treated me after... we met. But if the Prime found that your spark was not kind and true, you would have been thrown in prison for poaching.” He looked down. “I would have interceded and attempted to get your sentence reduced because of the kindness you showed me, but you would not have been accepted into the ranks of the Rangers.” 

A shiver went through Bluestreak’s frame at Hound’s words. Prison? And probably deportation once they found out who he really was. “What does he do – read minds?” he asked.

“No! He can’t read minds.” Hound glanced to the side. “Although sometimes it feels like he can.” He looked back to Bluestreak intently. “He carries the Matrix. It allows him to commune with Primus, and through Primus, Optimus Prime can discern the virtue of a spark.” Hound’s voice had taken on an awed tone as he spoke. “And he’s never been wrong. Those he’s deemed worthy to be Rangers are some of the best mechs on Cybertron.”

Bluestreak wore an expression of disbelief. “You think I’m one of the best mechs on Cybertron?” he asked. “Me? Remember, I drugged you after stealing from your Prime.”

“He is your Prime now as well,” Hound said resolutely. “And even good mechs make mistakes.” When Bluestreak shook his helm, Hound leaned forward. “I would trust a Ranger – any of them – with my life in an instant. And that includes you, even if you haven’t taken the oath yet.” Hound reached out with his last words and put his hand on top of Bluestreak’s. When Bluestreak looked down at their hands, Hound pulled his back. “Sorry,” he said quietly.

“It’s all right,” Bluestreak said. When Hound looked at him again, he smiled. “I... hope I can live up to the trust you’ve given me.”


	5. My Wits, My Frame, and My Spark

Bluestreak looked at the guards on either side of the office door, and paused at the threshold. “Sir?” he asked quietly. “You asked to see me?”

Optimus Prime looked up from his work and waved Bluestreak in. “Please, sit down. Shut the door behind you.”

With one more glance at the guards, Bluestreak slid the door closed, then sat in the seat that the Prime had indicated. His imagination had run wild as he had made his way to the Prime’s study, and now that he was here Bluestreak was on edge. 

Fortunately, the Prime did not seem to want to drag the meeting out. Meeting Bluestreak’s optics, he said simply, “You have been here for an orbital cycle now, and I wanted to get your thoughts on your future in the Rangers.”

With great effort Bluestreak kept his door wings from fluttering in anxiety, but there was nothing he could do about the lurch he felt in his tanks. “Sir?” he asked.

With impossibly kind and patient optics, the Prime asked, “Will you take the oath of allegiance? Or will you leave us?” 

“Those are my options?” Bluestreak asked. He exvented, finally allowing his door wings to twitch. He smiled slightly. “Join us or be banished?”

The Prime laughed. “Not banished, but you will not be welcome in the Rangers’ barracks any longer.” His expression became serious again. “And either way you decide, any further criminal activity will not be tolerated.”

Ducking his helm, Bluestreak felt a twist in his spark. “I still regret shooting that torbuk. In ten vorn abroad, I had never stolen before. I swear I would not do it again.” 

“I believe you, Bluestreak,” the Prime said. “Does this mean you are planning on leaving?” 

Leaving. In the time he’d been in Iacon, Bluestreak had become comfortable. He no longer started out of recharge at every sound. He had stopped looking over his shoulder every time he fueled. Whether all this was because he was better rested and better fueled than he had been in vorn, or whether he had comrades that he had grown to know, or whether the regular visits to the cathedral had soothed some of his unease, he felt like he was at home. Leaving meant giving all of that up.

At Bluestreak’s continued silence, the Prime stood up. “Walk with me.” 

Bluestreak stood and walked alongside the Prime to the large doors that led to the second floor terrace. They walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out over the gardens below. “I do not meant to pressure you into answering, but I must receive a decision eventually,” the Prime said. “There is a darkness coming to Cybertron, and I intend for Iacon to be ready to face it when it arrives.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Bluestreak asked, openly curious.

“As soon as I heard that Hound had found another prospective Ranger, I was hopeful,” Optimus Prime said. “Hound has good instincts for who will find favour with Primus. He seems to be especially attuned to the will of Primus.” Optimus Prime looked at Bluestreak. “And when I met you, I knew that you were special. I see great things in your future, Bluestreak,” he said quietly. “I know you are a skeptic on the powers of Primus, and of the Matrix, and of me.” At Bluestreak’s alarmed expression, the Prime held up a hand and smiled. “Don’t worry. I cannot read your thoughts, if that is what you are thinking. It’s simply written on your face every time we speak.”

Bluestreak looked away from the Prime’s intense gaze, and his hands tightened on the railing of the terrace. “In Praxus, I was taught that Primus is within us all,” he said. “Not just a chosen Prime.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s hard to give up the teachings of your youth, even if you no longer really believe them.”

“Ah, yes. You were taught that Primus is a full-framed Praxian,” the Prime said. “You were taught that Praxians were created in Primus’ image, and that each Praxian carries with them a piece of the spark of Primus. And as a pure Praxian, I can guess that you were taught that it was your role – your **duty** – to help create a perfect vessel for the coming of Primus.”

Bluestreak’s door wings twitched when the Prime danced so close to one of the reasons Bluestreak fled Praxus. He calmed himself, keeping his expression carefully neutral, and then tipped his wings upwards. “You’re familiar with Praxian doctrine.”

“Of course.” Optimus Prime gazed at the gardens below them. “Are you are familiar with the ancient texts that speak of the blessed sparks of Primus who will defeat the Unmaker?”

“I... They were part of my studies,” Bluestreak said carefully. “I suppose that your priests interpret those passages to mean that the Rangers are the blessed sparks?” Bluestreak asked, cocking a brow ridge. 

“Others may believe that the interpretation is up for debate, but to us it is the truth.” Optimus Prime met Bluestreak’s optics again. “I know that you are destined for greatness. The Unmaker **will** come again, and we must be ready. I want as many Rangers at my side as possible before he arrives, and I would like for you to be among them.”

Bluestreak glanced down. So the Prime believed there was a holy war coming, and he intended his handful of Rangers to stand by his side. Bluestreak was not sure how much of the ancient texts he really believed, especially because of the twisted mockery that the Praxian priests had made of them. Those texts and the meaning wrung out of them by the priests represented everything he hated about his homeland, and were the core reason why he had been forced to run. Staying in Praxus meant pretending to believe the prophecies and stories, and fulfilling the role that the priests had ordained for every full-framed Praxian, regardless of his personal desires. 

Joining the Rangers meant leaving all that behind... Until the Praxian priests, or his sire, or his brothers discovered where he was. Bluestreak knew it was only a matter of time. And once Prowl got wind of where he was... 

Bluestreak’s optics narrowed, picturing his brother’s stern face, and the look of shock on it the last time Bluestreak had seen him.

Then again, if they did come for him, Bluestreak had the Prime’s promise to defend him.

Bluestreak took a deep vent and let it out slowly, mimicking Sunstreaker’s even ventilations when he meditated in the cathedral. He felt his spark settle, and knew what his answer was.

Looking back up at the Prime, Bluestreak said, “I will take the oath and join the Rangers, if you’ll have me.”

* * *

The ceremony would be short, but that was because every Ranger in Iacon attended the swearing in of a new brother.

The night before his oath-taking ceremony, Bluestreak was cornered by Sunstreaker and Knock Out in their barracks room. “Now, we hadn’t said anything yet because you were new here,” said Knock Out, arranging a dizzying assortment of polishes, waxes and paints on his berth. “But you are in desperate need of a full repaint.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have time for that now,” said Sunstreaker, setting out some cloths and a buffer. “So we’ll do what we can to make sure you look good for your ceremony.”

As the two mechs started touching up the worst of the scuffs in his finish, Bluestreak looked over at Sideswipe, who was sprawled on his berth watching the activity. He grinned at Bluestreak. “Sunny has been itching to fix up your paint job since you got here,” he said. “I’m just glad that their attention is off my finish for a change.”

After they completed the job, Bluestreak had to admit that they did excellent work. It wasn’t perfect, but his plating had only looked better immediately after he’d had the new paint done three vorn before. As it was, he practically gleamed as he walked through the entrance of the cathedral.

Hound stood at his side. “I’m your sponsor,” he had explained. “I’m the one who originally identified you as someone who might find Primus’s favour, so I’m responsible for escorting you to the Prime.” 

Now, standing at the entrance of the cathedral, Bluestreak glanced at Hound. The green mech smiled at him. “Ready?” Hound asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Bluestreak said, and they walked into the cathedral together.

The Prime and a priest stood at the base of the statue. “Who brings this mech to the pedes of Primus?” called the priest.

“I am Hound, one of Primus’ chosen paladins, and a Ranger of the Prime. I bring this mech into the embrace of Primus,” Hound called in response.

“Approach.”

As they walked past the gathered Rangers, Bluestreak held his helm high and his door wings flared wide. He had expected to feel tense and anxious. After all, he was exposing himself in a rather public way. But only Rangers were gathered in the cathedral for the ceremony; the public was not permitted to see this ritual. And after coming here so many times with Sunstreaker, Bluestreak had come to associate the space with a preternatural calm in his spark.

“Who is this mech?” the Prime asked as they reached the base of the statue.

“I am Bluestreak.” The red and grey mech met Optimus Prime’s optics.

“Do you come here of your own free will to bind your spark to that of Primus?” the Prime asked.

“I do,” said Bluestreak.

“Then speak the words that your brothers may hear you.”

Lowering his door wings to a respectful angle, Bluestreak recited the oath that Hound had rehearsed with him. “I swear to protect the innocent, the beautiful, and the pure, echoing the will of Primus. I vow to uphold the light of Primus against the encroaching darkness of the Unmaker. And I pledge to place my wits, my frame, and my spark between the Unmaker and Cybertron. I shall fall before Cybertron falls.”

“I pledge my wits, my frame, and my spark to Primus,” intoned the rest of the Rangers. Their words echoed off the high ceiling of the building and faded slowly.

“Bluestreak, kneel and accept the blessing of Primus,” said the Prime.

Carefully lowering himself to his knees, Bluestreak bowed his helm. 

The priest stepped forward and said, “May you be blessed by Primus.” He touched a digit to Bluestreak’s helm, shoulders, and chest. Each touch left behind a smear of enchanted oil that glowed at the priest’s words to mark him as a newly-sworn Ranger. “Blessed be your wits, your frame, and your spark.”

“Hound, please give our new Ranger his insignia,” the Prime said.

Hound took the pot of paint that the priest gave him, and carefully painted the emblems on Bluestreak’s shoulder armor that would mark him as one of the Prime’s Rangers. Bluestreak caught Hound’s optics as he finished, and the green mech gave him a quick, easy smile.

“Bluestreak of Iacon, rise as a paladin of Primus and a Ranger of the Prime,” said the priest, and Bluestreak climbed back to his pedes to the roar and calls of the other Rangers.

As he rose, he looked up at the statue of Primus and saw that the god’s crystal optics shone brightly with a solid blue light. Startled, Bluestreak watched them for a moment more before the light faded from the crystal.

 _That’s a nice touch for the ceremony,_ he thought. 

He turned around to face the other Rangers, about a hundred all told. _So few to fight a holy war,_ he thought. _No wonder the Prime wants more mechs in the Rangers’ ranks._

Then he internally shook his helm. Superstition and old stories. The Rangers were just a convenient place for him to hide in plain sight. 

It turned out that once the ceremony was over, the tradition was not yet complete. The next step was to take the newest Ranger to Maccadams for as much high-grade as he could pour into his tanks.

“But I really don’t drink a lot,” Bluestreak protested as he was hauled into the pub. Mechs cheered and saluted him as he walked in, the glowing oil still marking his frame as a new Ranger. Bluestreak smiled, waving at the faces he knew, and hoped the oil would fade as quickly as Hound had promised it would.

The Rangers split off into established groups of friends, and Bluestreak ended up in a small group consisting of his roommates and Hound.

“If you don’t drink enough, then we’ll make up your share,” Sideswipe said with a grin as they clustered around a table. 

“I ordered you the same drink you had our first night here,” Hound said, handing Bluestreak a glass. 

Bluestreak accepted the drink with a smile and a nod. “To my sponsor,” Bluestreak said, holding up the glass to Hound.

“To all our sponsors!” Sideswipe said enthusiastically, then throwing back his drink with a toss of his helm.

Laughing quietly, Bluestreak asked, “So who was your sponsor, Sideswipe? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Ratchet.” The red mech smiled gently, his expression far softer than his usual mischievous grin. 

“The medic?” When Sideswipe nodded, Bluestreak asked, “How...?”

“We were pit fighters in Kaon,” Sunstreaker said. “We were sold into the pits as younglings.” He glanced at his brother. “We were good. The best.”

Sideswipe exvented and tapped a digit on the rim of his empty glass. “Our owner kept throwing us into more and more impossible fights, and we kept rising to the challenge, even when he started putting us into deathmatches.” Sideswipe paused to take another deep vent. “I killed my first mech only half a vorn after we got our adult upgrades.” He looked at Sunstreaker and put a hand on his twin’s shoulder. “And Sunny’s first kill was the fight after that.” 

“That... That’s awful,” Bluestreak said. He’d heard tales of the Kaon gladiator pits, but he had no idea that they used mechs so young... Nor mechs who had not volunteered.

Sideswipe shrugged. “It was what we knew, even if we hated it. But then one night, we overheard our owner talking about our next fight.”

Sunstreaker scowled into his glass, and Bluestreak’s door wings twitched upwards. It was the first time he’d ever seen the yellow mech show an expression that was something other than calm or content. “It was going to be almost impossible. He wanted to pit us against ten mechs at once, with weapons... To the death.” He looked up at Bluestreak, his expression still dark. “We were the most popular mechs on the circuit. If we lost, the owners of the other gladiators would split the winnings – it would be a huge amount – and compensate our owner for his loss. If we somehow won, he’d make a fortune anyway.”

“It was a win win for him, whether we lived or died. We decided that night we’d had enough,” Sideswipe said. “So... We left.”

“You just... left?” Bluestreak asked.

Sideswipe leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting back to his usual roguish air. “Yup. If you call beating up five guards, bashing through a door and racing off into the night with hellhounds on our tails ‘just leaving.’”

“The hellhounds caught us,” Sunstreaker said. He looked into his glass as if he could see the scene playing out in the liquid. “We killed them all and kept running, so they sent more. We killed those, too, but we were tired by then. So the third pack caught us near the border with Iacon, and we were too tired to fight them off again, so they started ripping us to shreds.”

“Slag,” Bluestreak muttered.

“I remember offlining, thinking that was it... I was going to be deactivated,” Sideswipe said. “The next thing I remember was coming back online and seeing Ratchet looking down at me.”

“The Rangers had heard the baying of the hellhounds. They found the pack just before they started to feed,” Sunstreaker said. Bluestreak marvelled that the mech’s tone was so steady while describing his near-death experience. “They got us back to Iacon, and Ratchet patched us up.”

“That’s what you meant when you said the Rangers saved your life?” Bluestreak guessed.

“No.” Sunstreaker met Bluestreak’s look. “I said joining the Rangers and taking the oath saved my life.” He glanced at his brother, then added, “After so long in the pits... I was not a nice person. I’m still not, deep inside. I was angry. Violent. Confrontational. Then when Ratchet took us to meet the Prime, and he looked at us...” Sunstreaker closed his optics for a moment, and when he opened them again, they were clear and calm. “Knowing that Primus and the Prime accepted me for who I was helped me realize that I was not as lost as I thought I was.”

Bluestreak took a sip of his drink. While he appreciated the protection that the Prime offered him, a deep part of his spark was still uncomfortable with making oaths that went against what he had learned as a youngling, while a greater portion of him simply no longer believed in the old stories.

Knock Out, who had been quietly listening, leaned towards Bluestreak. “Yeah. I think it’s all nonsense, too,” he said in a mock whisper.

“Well...” Sideswipe tilted his helm. “I thought so too, for a long time. But then... I saw how much better Sunny’s doing. It’s really helped him.”

Knock Out waved a hand. “Meditation is proven to be therapeutic, regardless of whether you do it in the name of Primus or not.”

As the three mechs started arguing philosophical semantics, Bluestreak looked at Hound. “Should I even ask what you think?” he asked.

Hound laughed. “A little from column A, a little from column B,” he admitted. “I feel... something? When I’m speaking to the Prime, or when I’m in the cathedral. And I felt something when we met, something that wanted me to get you to come to speak to the Prime. But do I believe that the Unmaker is returning?” He shook his helm. “That I’m not sure about. There’s enough evil in this world caused by mechs. I don’t particularly relish the thought of something supernatural adding to that.”

“Good. That’s sort of how I feel,” Bluestreak said. He finished his drink and put the glass on the table next to Hound’s. “All the pomp and ritual around the oath... I’ll admit it made me feel a little uncomfortable.”

“To be honest, I think most of that is for the benefit of the people of Iacon,” Hound admitted. “They need to trust us to protect them, and if there is a ceremony that makes them feel we’ve been anointed somehow...” He shrugged and gestured at the glowing oil on Bluestreak’s frame. “Ritual is a powerful weapon.”

Bluestreak nodded. “Lighting the optics in the statue was a nice touch,” he said with a grin.

Hound looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“After I took the oath. The statue’s optics... They lit up blue. They must have lights inside that the priest controls or something,” Bluestreak said.

A strange expression crossed Hound’s face. “There are no lights. The optics don’t light up.”

“Really?” Bluestreak shrugged. “Probably just a trick of the light, then.”

“Maybe,” Hound said dubiously, but then they were drawn back into the conversation between the twins and Knock Out.

When they got back to the barracks later that night, Bluestreak let out an exclamation when they entered the room. “My rifle!” he said, grabbing it from his berth where it had been lain.

“Ironhide must have dropped it off,” Sideswipe said, sinking onto his own berth. “Really nice weapon, by the way. I’ve heard you’ve had military training.”

Bluestreak’s door wings shot up over his shoulders before he could stop his reaction. “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, relax, mysterious stranger. No one knows for sure,” Knock Out said. “But watching you shoot, it’s obvious you’ve had some training. And while your hand-to-hand was rusty, you’ve used some moves that none of us have ever seen before. You had to learn that somewhere.”

Frowning, Bluestreak said nothing.

“Your shooting has definitely impressed Ironhide,” Sideswipe said. “I wouldn’t mind spending some time on the range with you to pick up some tips.”

“Speaking of impressed,” Knock Out said, “you seem to have made quite the impression on a certain green mech.”

“Hound?” Bluestreak asked. He shrugged. “He’s a good friend, I guess.”

“Oh, open your optics and pay attention to how he looks at you,” Knock Out said. “I don’t know if he’s just got a thing for door wings or what, but he spends more time looking at you than at anyone else.”

Bluestreak grunted as he settled onto his berth. He was used to getting looks, both admiring and lecherous, but he hadn’t actually noticed Hound looking at him that way.

He offlined his optics and pictured his friend as he prepared his systems for recharge. Well... If he was going to get “looks” from anyone, at least it was from Hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And that's the end of Act 1! 
> 
> In Act 2 we'll find out more about Bluestreak's past, and begin to see some of the darkness that the Prime has foreseen.


	6. Flames of the Past

Bluestreak loved being out on patrol. He loved the feel of the road under his tires and the sun on his plating. Even the terrain of Iacon was becoming familiar to him, from the mountainous region to the west near Kaon to the thick crystal forests to the east.

The company was welcome, too. His favourite partner was Hound; their friendship had deepened since Bluestreak’s oathbinding ceremony, and Hound’s enthusiasm about the wildlife and the back country made every trip go quickly. 

For this patrol, though, Bluestreak was partnered with Knock Out. The red racer was talkative and full of stories from his life before coming to Iacon. Knock Out was one mech who was not secretive about his past.

“It’s not like I did anything wrong except frag off a noble,” he said as they portioned out their fuel the first night of their patrol. “It would have been a simple cosmetic procedure if they’d simply told me that he had underlying structural issues.” He waved a hand dismissively. “But because he didn’t give me all the information I needed, his chin guard... fell off.”

“It fell off?” Bluestreak tried to picture what that looked like. “Couldn’t you just... I don’t know, put it back on?”

“If I could have, I would have,” Knock Out said. “But the operation did too much damage. The entire substructure of his helm needed to be rebuilt. I could have done the work, but he and his sire considered it my fault that they didn’t tell me everything ahead of time. Spoiled little noble spawn,” he muttered. He shook his helm and waved a hand. “And so, I was unjustly ran out of the city.”

Bluestreak frowned down at his fuel for a moment before pushing aside the twist in his spark he felt at Knock Out’s offhand remarks. “If you’re a doctor, why didn’t you become a medic for the Rangers?” Bluestreak asked. 

Knock Out shrugged. “I still keep up on my skills, spending a few cycles every once in a while with Ratchet. But we really only need one medic. I’m just a backup. Besides, I specialized in cosmetic surgery,” he explained with a smile. “Not much call for it in the Rangers.”

Bluestreak filed that information away in case he needed it later.

On the second cycle of their patrol, they saw a cloud of cyber-vultures circling over an area in the distance. “We should check that out,” Knock Out said. “We’re really close to the Nyon border. Hopefully it’s not a mech who crossed the border and then got lost.”

It didn’t take them long to locate what had attracted the vultures’ attention. Parts of a frame were strewn across a clearing. Many of the large pieces had claw marks dug into the metal.

Bluestreak stepped carefully across the clearing, looking down at the parts. “Can you tell whether it’s a mech?”

Knock Out hummed. “It’s hard to tell, but don’t think it is,” he said. He turned a part over with the tip of his pede. “Based on the parts I think it was some kind of mechanimal, unless it was a beastformer.” 

“I hope it was just a mechanimal.” Bluestreak knelt down to pick up what looked like a chunk of jaw. “It would be awful if a mech died this way.”

“What I find more disturbing than the dismemberment, though, is the lack of energon.” Knock Out gestured around the clearing. “There isn’t a drop anywhere.”

“Maybe it was killed, its fuel was drained, and then it was dismembered,” Bluestreak suggested. 

The Velocitronian shook his helm. “Even then, there would be some residual energon in the lines, and it would be splashed on the parts or on the ground, somewhere.” He looked around. “But see for yourself... There’s nothing.”

When they took the report of the frame back to Optimus Prime, he looked troubled. “Another patrol reported something similar while you were gone. They found it further south, but still near the Nyon border,” he said. “But that one was a clearly a mech who had been ripped to shreds. And there was no sign of energon on the frame.”

Bluestreak shuddered. “Any idea what could have done that?” he asked.

“Nope. But we’re doublin’ up patrols on that border,” Ironhide said. “Things are getting’ bad in Nyon... We don’t want the badness leakin’ into Iacon.”

Things were definitely getting bad in Nyon. Almost every cycle one or two mechs who had escaped Nyon made their way to the gates of Iacon City, begging for shelter. Most of them were shell-shocked, and unable to speak in any detail of the abuse they’d received in the prisons or slave mines, except in the vaguest terms. 

Hound was troubled by the surge of refugees from Nyon, to the point where it started affecting his normally cheerful outlook when speaking about it. “I was there, Blue,” he said one night as he and Bluestreak met for their regular drinks at Maccadams. “I’ve seen some of what these mechs are running from, and I don’t blame them the least. Slag, I ran too, as soon as I got the chance.”

Bluestreak simply tipped his door wings upwards, indicating that he was listening. He didn’t press Hound for details, since he didn’t yet feel comfortable giving the green mech any details about why he had run from Praxus. But Hound was in a talkative mood that night, and he continued speaking after finishing his drink.

“I was in the mines, which was bad enough. Not enough fuel, not enough rest, and taskmasters that would beat you if you stepped even a micrometer out of line.” Hound laughed coldly, a strange sound coming from him. “But at least I didn’t get picked for the camps.” He met Bluestreak’s optics. “If you got tapped to go into the camps... You didn’t come out again. We didn’t know what they were doing in there, but the screams...” Hound visibly shuddered and shut his optics.

Bluestreak reached out and put his hand over Hound’s. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he said quietly.

Hound opened his optics and looked at Bluestreak. “I’ve been in Iacon for over twenty vorn,” he said. “And those screams still haunt me. I still hear them sometimes, when it’s quiet and I’m trying to get into recharge.” He turned his hand over and folded his digits around Bluestreak’s. “I know why the refugees are running, and I am so glad to be here to help them.”

* * *

When the envoy from Vos arrived in Iacon, Bluestreak was assigned to one of the watch towers overlooking the citadel gate. “Unlike most of the other state visitors we receive, the Vosians will arrive by air,” Ironhide said at the briefing. “Silverbolt and Air Raid will escort them from the Iacon border, and Ultra Magnus will meet them at the gates of the citadel. Optimus Prime wants to give them the same welcome at the gates as any other envoy, even though they could fly right into the courtyard.” Ironhide’s expression made it clear what he thought about that plan, but he made no direct comment on it.

“Bluestreak, you’ll be providing cover from above. Skids will be up there with you to oversee the operation and be a second set of optics.” He rattled off the rest of the assignments. “All right, mechs, let’s make this flawless. It’s been a long time since Vos has sent a representative to meet the Prime. Let’s do what we can to make sure they arrive and leave safely.”

Bluestreak scanned the crowd and the buildings surrounding the gate. The Prime’s alchemists had applied protection charms to the walls around the citadel and the gate, but those wouldn’t work if an attack came before they entered the gate. Bluestreak examined every roof and window that might have a clear shot to anyone standing in the gate area.

Beside him, Skids was doing the same, looking down at the crowd carefully. Below them, the Rangers and Guard were arrayed along the street approaching the citadel, and had cleared a large area before the gates. 

They both looked up at the sound of engines in the sky above them.

Silverbolt and Air Raid flanked a contingent of six Vosians: four seekers and two aerials. They swooped low over the crowd, and Bluestreak gripped his rifle more firmly, stepping up his surveying of the crowd. With a flashy transformation, the Vosian contingent landed in the area that had been cleared for them, just outside the citadel gates.

In the middle of the group was the Vosian envoy, a blue seeker with red markings. Ironhide had said his designation was Thundercracker. He stepped forward and spoke briefly to Ultra Magnus. The large Iaconian made a gesture of welcome towards the Vosians as he spoke, and then they walked together towards the gate.

Bluestreak kept scanning the crowd until the large gates were swung shut behind the contingent. As the crowds began to disperse outside of the gate, he watched the Vosians walk slowly towards the citadel entrance alongside their escort.

“How do you feel about the Vosians?”

Glancing at Skids, Bluestreak frowned, then looked back down at the group. “I feel nothing in particular, to be honest.”

Skids lifted his door wings slightly. “I used to hate them.” Bluestreak glanced at Skids again. The blue mech was still scanning the crowd outside the gate. “For what they did. If they hadn’t razed Praxus eight hundred vorn ago, it would be a much different place now.” He finally looked at Bluestreak. “It might be a place where I could still be living in peace.”

Inclining his door wings in agreement, Bluestreak replied, “That’s true. But I have no problem separating what was done so long ago from the mechs who live in Vos now. They did not invade Praxus.”

Nodding, Skids said, “I came to the same conclusion a long time ago.” He picked up his rifle, preparing to leave the watch tower. “I ask only because I have been told that the Prime is looking to create a mutual aid treaty with Vos. If they are attacked, we must answer.” He tipped his door wings down and added, “I needed to ascertain your ability to work with Vosians.”

“Did Ironhide ask for that?” 

“No. It was for my own information,” Skids said. “If you had latent resentment towards Vosians, I would have to figure that into my strategies should we need to work closely with them in the future.”

Bluestreak suppressed the twitch in his door wings. “You can rest assured that a centuries-old war does not affect my reactions,” he said stiffly.

“Glad to hear it,” Skids said with a small smile, and disappeared down the stairs of the watch tower.

Bluestreak remained sitting in the tower, replaying the conversation in his memory. No, he did not hold any real ill-will towards the Vosians. Yes, his life would have probably been drastically different if the war had not happened. Maybe it would be better. Maybe not. 

He shook his helm; it was pointless thinking of what-ifs. Parts of his life had been terrible. Other parts had been amazing. Change one thing and all he knew might crumble. Frag, if the Vosians hadn’t bombed Praxus into slag so long ago, would Bluestreak have even been created at all? He laughed to himself. There were too many variables to even consider.

That night, as he broke down his rifle and began cleaning it, Bluestreak’s thoughts wandered to the mechs in his life whose presence had touched him. Changed him. Made him who he was. Set him on the road he now walked. His family. His friends. His lover. 

With a heavy exvent, he finished reassembling his weapon and leaned it against his berth. 

There was no point in wishing to change the past.

* * *

_Sure digits ran up Bluestreak’s back, ghosting over the hinges on his door wings. Soft, familiar lips ran down the side of his helm, caressing his jawline before settling on his own lips for a deep kiss. Bluestreak arched up into the caress, his rising charge lighting a fire in his lines._

_How long had it been since he’d allowed someone to touch him like this?_

_Inhaling the spicy scent of his old lover’s oil and his favourite mix of high-grade, Bluestreak burrowed his face into Tempest’s neck cords. A hand ran down Bluestreak’s chest armor to rest on the cover of his interface array._

_Bucking his hips at the light touch, Bluestreak sought out Tempest’s mouth again for another kiss. He moaned quietly into the open mouth on his. “I missed you so much,” he murmured._

_When there was no response, Bluestreak opened his optics to look at his long-lost lover. But instead of seeing Tempest’s familiar storm gray face and gleaming golden optics, Bluestreak saw that he was being held by a green mech with azure blue optics. Hound smiled down at him and brushed a hand across his cheek._

Bluestreak woke from recharge with a start. He sat up on his berth, his cooling fans running on full. His roommates were all still deep in recharge, except for Sideswipe who was out on patrol. 

Bluestreak lay back, vents gulping air to cool his systems. His interface array ached with need.

As his processor calmed again, Bluestreak put his arm across his optics. He hadn’t dreamt about Tempest in vorn... Not since he’d had himself painted in Tempest’s colours. He had told himself then that it was just time for a new colour scheme, and grey and red was non-descript enough for his purposes. But a small part of him knew it was in tribute.

However, this was his first time dreaming of Hound. 

When his systems finally cooled enough to set his systems back into standby, Bluestreak re-initiated his recharge protocols. As he drifted off, he thought of the smiling Ranger who’d given him a second chance.


	7. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sticky sexual interfacing.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Hound said, setting down his drink. 

Bluestreak jerked his optics back to Hound and smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “Skids asked me something yesterday that I haven’t been able to purge from my memory.” When Hound tilted his helm quizzically, Bluestreak began recounting the conversation he’d had with the tactician in the watch tower.

Hound frowned when Bluestreak finished his story. “I guess his question makes sense, based on what I know of history. The Vosians bombed Praxus for some kind of heresy. The Praxians rebuilt. Then they cut themselves off from the rest of Cybertron as much as they could.” He tipped a digit into the air for each point. “And I know several Praxians who left that place because... They were being mistreated?” Hound’s question hung in the air for a moment before he glanced away. “Sorry. I don’t need to know why you left.”

Bluestreak considered for a moment. The Prime knew of Praxian dogma, although it obviously wasn’t common knowledge. 

And... he trusted Hound. That in itself was a little startling to him, laid out so bare. It had been a long time since he trusted anyone as much as he trusted Hound. 

“Do you know anything about Praxian doctrine?” Bluestreak asked. When Hound shook his helm, Bluestreak scooted his chair closer to Hound so he could speak more quietly. “So the ancient texts that describe the final battle with the Unmaker describe his death coming at Primus’ hands: ‘With horned helm and broad wing, with optic bright and spark true, Primus blessed the Unmaker shall subdue.’” Bluestreak waited for Hound to nod before continuing. “In most of Cybertron, everyone assumes the texts are speaking about a seeker, or an aerial frame of some sort. Even the statue in the cathedral here shows Primus as sort of a seeker/aerial hybrid.”

Hound nodded. “That’s how I’ve always pictured him,” he said.

Bluestreak finished his drink. “But in Praxus, they interpret the text as saying that Primus is Praxian... A pure Praxian, with a chevron and door wings.” He pulled a full vent cycle and continued. “That’s why the Vosians invaded Praxus for: they considered the Praxian interpretation to be heresy. Once Praxus recovered from the bombing, they closed their borders to the rest of the world completely... And it’s been that way ever since.”

Hound looked troubled. “And you don’t blame the Vosians for... how things are now?” he asked.

“Not the ones here, that’s for sure,” Bluestreak said. “They weren’t created yet when the war happened, so how could I blame them for something their ancestors did?” He shrugged. “Anyway, that’s what Skids was asking me about... And it dredged up a lot of old memories of my life back in Praxus. What things were like for me before... before I left.”

“You left people behind,” Hound said quietly.

With a flick of his door wings, Bluestreak nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Hound said. He put his hand gently on Bluestreak’s wrist.

Bluestreak glanced down at the green mech’s hand, feeling the warmth of his touch. When Hound went to pull his hand away, Bluestreak set his hand over Hound’s, holding it in place. 

He met Hound’s blue optics. The green mech was looking at him curiously, his helm tilted slightly to the side, a smile on his lips. Bluestreak smiled back, then said, “You’re a good friend, Hound. I’m really glad I got to know you.”

Hound smiled before letting loose a laugh. “Well, tossing infatuation powder in a mech’s face is one way to get to know them.” Before Bluestreak could reply, he quickly added, “I know that wasn’t your intent. Like I’ve told you before, you are completely and utterly forgiven for that.”

Bluestreak was still holding Hound’s hand between his own hand and his wrist. He turned his arm to clasp Hound’s hand in both of his, and thought for a moment how much he really trusted this mech. 

His spark spun happily when he realized that he trusted Hound almost completely.

Almost. 

But ‘almost’ was good enough for some purposes.

The image of Hound holding him from his dream the night before flashed through Bluestreak’s memory. Bluestreak realized that he wouldn’t mind his dream becoming a reality. 

“You said a lot of things when you were charmed,” Bluestreak said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smile. “Now, while I understand that you really can’t be held responsible for anything you say while under a charm… I have to wonder how much of those things you still want to do.”

Hound stared at Bluestreak for a long moment before saying, “Um. If you’re really asking?” When Bluestreak nodded, Hound gave him a half shrug and said, “Most of them.” He paused. “All of them, probably.”

He gently stroked the back of Hound’s hand with his. “Can I take you up on those offers you made?”

“Offers?” Hound asked weakly.

Tipping his door wings forward to shield his face from casual glances in the pub, Bluestreak said, “You offered to touch me, then to kiss me. Then to frag me.” He smiled. “Are those offers still on the table?”

His optics wide, Hound stammered, “Yes?” When Bluestreak’s smile widened, he repeated, “Yes! Um… Tonight?”

Bluestreak nodded. “If you’re willing.”

Hound stood suddenly, his optics bright and a silly smile on his face. “I’ll get us a room upstairs, then?” Without waiting for an answer, the green mech practically ran to the bar.

Maccadams knew its clientele well, and was aware that the Ranger and Guard barracks left mechs with little to no privacy. The rooms above the pub were small, but the berths were large and comfortable.

Hound shut the door behind him and turned, suddenly exuding an air of shyness. He smiled and asked, “So, what did you want to do?”

Bluestreak laughed and wrapped an arm around Hound’s waist, gently pulling him close. “Well, we could just step through your requests. First, to touch,” he said.

Reaching a hand out, Hound’s digits hesitated over Bluestreak’s door wings. “Anywhere?” he asked softly.

“Anywhere.” Bluestreak rested his hands on Hound’s hips.

A light touch traced down Bluestreak’s left door wing, and it twitched. “A little harder,” Bluestreak whispered.

Hound complied, and shivers ran from Bluestreak’s wing through the rest of his frame. His optics transfixed on his digits running over the surface of the wing, Hound said, “There are so few Praxians around. And even fewer with door wings.” His lips curled into a grin. “I could look at them all day.”

Bluestreak laughed quietly, startling Hound into pausing his caress. “So Knock Out was right. You **do** have a thing for door wings.”

After staring at Bluestreak for a moment, Hound laughed as well. “Yeah, I admit it. I totally have a thing for door wings.” He repeated his gentle touches on the other wing, then ran a digit across its upper edge. Bluestreak’s ventilations hitched as the caress sent a shiver through his frame. “They’re gorgeous, and just slightly exotic.”

Closing his optics for a moment, Bluestreak simply enjoyed the soft touches on his wings. He was glad that Hound seemed unsure with his touch; it allowed Bluestreak to firmly separate the memories of Tempest from the mech standing before him now. He opened his optics again and lifted a hand to brush Hound’s cheek. “I think your next request was a kiss.”

His optics brightening, Hound gripped Bluestreak’s helm between his hands. “It’s another type of touch,” Hound said, echoing Bluestreak’s words from when they first met, and pressed their lips together.

Hound tasted of the mid-grade he’d been drinking, and his lips were firm. He confidently kissed Bluestreak, his lips pulling at the Praxian’s and his glossa dipping into Bluestreak’s mouth a few moments later.

Bluestreak felt as though the energon in his lines had turned to flame. He heard his fans roar to life, and he clung to Hound. It really had been a long time since he’d been with someone. He whimpered into Hound’s mouth, letting the green mech’s hand drift down his side to pull their hips flush. When they finally parted, Hound’s bright optics peered into Bluestreak’s. “Like that?” Hound asked.

Laughing, Bluestreak nodded. “That’ll do,” he said, his offhand words betrayed by the static in his vocalizer. He steadied himself, then leaned his chevron against Hound’s forehelm. “I want to take you,” he murmured, looking into Hound’s optics. He brushed his lips against Hound’s once more, aching to do more than just touch. “I want to take all of you.”

His own voice quavering, Hound said, “Then do it.”

Bluestreak grinned at Hound and lunged forward, greedily kissing him as if to devour his mouth. He turned, maneuvering Hound backwards until the backs of his legs hit the berth. Hound sat down hard, and Bluestreak pushed him flat. Nudging Hound’s legs apart, he knelt between them. The green’s mech’s fans were running hot, and he stared up at the grey and red mech above him with wide optics. Bluestreak palmed Hound’s interface array, and the cover slid back as soon as his digits brushed the surface. 

He ran a finger around the outer rim of Hound’s valve, then dipped inside, just past the valve’s entrance. Lubrication was already pearling in the mech’s folds, and Hound gripped the surface of the berth at Bluestreak’s gentle explorations. 

“You’re certainly not the first mech to find me a little exotic,” Bluestreak said quietly, pausing every few words to nibble at the vent on the side of Hound’s helm. He ran a digit around Hound’s anterior node, smiling at the squeal it caused in Hound’s engine. “Every time I stopped for recharge, I had mechs looking at me. Wanting to touch me. Wanting more. And I didn’t even have to dose them with a charm.” He met Hound’s optics. “But I needed to wait until I found someone I can trust.”

Hound drew a stuttering vent as Bluestreak’s first digit was joined by a second, and together they plunged deeper into his valve. “You... trust me?” he asked.

Bluestreak dipped his helm down and whispered into Hound’s audial. “Right now, I trust you more than anyone on Cybertron.”

An inner light seemed to glow within Hound, and lit his face with a radiant smile. He lifted his hands and ran them down both sides of Bluestreak’s helm to his shoulders. “You have no idea how happy that makes me,” he said. He hissed at another movement in his valve and flick of Bluestreak’s thumb against his node, and his expression changed to one of challenge. “You promised to take me,” he said with a growl. “Show me what you meant by that.”

It only took a moment for Bluestreak’s array to snap open and for his spike to pressurize. He had been on edge ever since his dream the night before, and having someone he trusted as much as Hound being a willing partner was enough to stoke the embers that glowed within him. He pulled his fingers from Hound’s valve and grabbed the green mech’s hips, pulling him to the edge of the berth. Locking his optics with Hound’s, he slowly slid his spike into Hound’s slick valve, moaning as he felt himself be enveloped in the slick warmth.

Bluestreak leaned over Hound, placing his hands on either side of his helm. He rocked his hips forward, working his spike further into Hound’s valve until he was fully seated, then he ground his hips into Hound’s. 

Hound arched towards Bluestreak, his helm coming off the berth slightly. “Oh, Primus,” Hound moaned as his valve cycled down on Bluestreak’s spike.

Laughing, Bluestreak said, “No need for the formalities. Just Blue is fine.” He lowered his helm and planted kisses along Hound’s jaw.

Hound’s moan turned into a laugh and then back into another loud moan as Bluestreak pulled back, leaving just the tip of his spike in Hound, then thrust forward again. 

Hound began groaning quietly, his volume rising each time Bluestreak filled him. The green mech wrapped his legs around Bluestreak’s thighs, encouraging him to thrust harder, faster, deeper. 

Bluestreak trailed his lips to Hound’s neck cords, burying his face there and inhaling Hound’s scent. This was too good, and it had been too long. He felt his charge rising as he rutted into Hound’s welcoming valve, and was unable to tamp it down. “Hound,” he gasped, his door wings fluttered above him with his effort. “I’m not gonna last much longer,” he managed to say between waves of pleasure flowing through his frame.

“Bite me,” Hound said, his vocalizer cracking with the effort. When Bluestreak looked down at him with wide optics, Hound reached up behind Bluestreak’s door wings, pulling the Praxian down against him. “On my neck. Please!”

Bluestreak hesitated for only a moment before complying. His dentae sunk into the dermal coating of Hound’s neck cords. Almost instantly Hound cried out, a wash of charge crackling through him, and his valve rippled in concert.

That pushed Bluestreak over, his engine roaring and his spike filling Hound’s valve with hot transfluid. Bluestreak’s elbows collapsed, his weight pushing Hound into the berth cushion, and Hound clung to him with arms and legs until both of their tremors subsided.

As he recovered, Bluestreak slid to the side so that he was half on, half off of the green mech. He put a hand on Hound’s helm and turned it to kiss him again, more gently than before. Then he leaned back and waited for Hound’s optics to regain focus. “Bite me, huh?” he asked with a smile. 

Hound laughed and rested a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder. “What can I say? It just does something for me,” he said with a little rev of his engine. “Even more when it’s you.”

* * *

Later, as they lay together in the berth, their legs tangled together and Bluestreak’s helm cradled in Hound’s arms, Bluestreak said, “It’s true, you know.”

“What is?” Hound asked, brushing his digits across Bluestreak’s back between his door wings.

“I trust you more than anyone I’ve known in a very long time.” Bluestreak tipped his helm back to look up at Hound. “It scares me a little. There’s a part of my processor that is convinced I still need to keep running, and that anyone might give me away. That anyone might turn me in.”

Hound hugged Bluestreak close. “You’re a Ranger now. You’re my friend. One of my very best friends,” Hound said firmly. “I would never betray you.”

“I know. And thank you,” Bluestreak said.

Hound’s hand paused in its gentle caress of Bluestreak’s back, then rested on one of his door wings. “But... I can’t protect you from what you’re hiding from if I don’t know what that is,” he said quietly.

Bluestreak was silent for a long moment. “Praxus,” he said finally.

“The whole country?” Hound asked, his tone slightly incredulous. “Could you be more specific?”

“The priests. The… crown. The government. Anyone who comes from there specifically looking for full-framed Praxians,” Bluestreak said, a tremor going through his door wings. 

Bluestreak looked up at Hound again, and he saw the green mech was frowning down at him. “This has something to do with why there are so few full-framed Praxians outside of the country, doesn’t it?”

Bluestreak nodded. His spark lurched, and he burrowed his face into Hound’s chest. The Prime had made it clear that he knew what the Praxian priests were attempting to do. Others probably knew as well. Surely there wouldn’t be any harm in telling Hound what others here already knew. Bluestreak nuzzled Hound once more before sitting up. “Has Ratchet or Skids ever told you anything about Praxus?”

Hound pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his arms on his knees. “Not really. Skids hasn’t said anything, but I’m not very good friends with him. Ratchet just said that he needed a better life than what he had in Praxus. Nothing else.”

Rising from the berth, Bluestreak walked to the window and looked out. The streets below Maccadams were busy with city folk going about their business, free to do as they wished within the law. “Ratchet and Skids probably left because of how hard it is to live there. If you aren’t a member of the nobility or upper class, life is hard. Low fuel rations are common because of barriers to trade. If you need repairs, new parts are hard to find. Your every move is controlled by the King and the nobility. The priests decide how your life will be lived, from the moment you are sparked to the moment you deactivate. But sometimes you might hear stories about how things are different outside of Praxus. Well, some mechs can’t resist trying to run when they hear those stories.” 

“That’s sort of how it was in Nyon.” Bluestreak looked away from the window to see Hound’s frown. “Except there they aren’t quite that controlling... But if you fall out of line, you are thrown into the mines forever.”

Looking back out the window, Bluestreak continued. “So, that’s the situation for regular Praxians. But full-framed Praxians... Noble or not, we are given full rations, the best schools, the best opportunities, and more freedom to do as we please, within limits set by the priests. But even then we’re not free.” He took a full vent cycle. “Before the war, before Vos bombed Praxus, it was a lot like anywhere else. Some people believed in Primus. Some didn’t. It didn’t really matter. But after the war, if you didn’t believe – if you didn’t believe in the specific flavour of Primus that the priests taught - you were punished. They taught that Primus was coming again, and he would be Praxian.” He turned away from the window to face Hound. “With horn,” he touched his chevron. “And with wing.” He fluttered his door wings once. “That is the only truth, and you **must** believe, or the belief will be beaten into you.”

“That’s awful,” Hound said, his optics troubled.

Bluestreak left the window and sat on the bed next to Hound. “Before the war, the idea of Primus being Praxian was a story. After the war... It became a goal.” He took Hound’s hand in his. “They started trying to breed a proper vessel for Primus to inhabit.” At Hound’s quiet exclamation, Bluestreak waved a hand. “Oh, by the time I was created it was an accepted practice. A full-framed Praxian could expect to have an arranged bonding set up for them by the time they had their adult upgrades, selected by the priests.”

“And... were you...” Hound left the question hanging in the air between them.

“I was promised to a mech only a few cycles after I first emerged,” Bluestreak said. “As soon as the priests confirmed I had a chevron and door wings, they arranged a mate for me that would fit with their breeding program.” He laughed quietly. “I didn’t even meet the mech for the first time until we were younglings.”

Hound was staring at him. “But what if you didn’t get along? What if you fell in love with someone else?” he asked.

Bluestreak’s door wings quivered. “That’s what happened.” Bluestreak looked down at his hand in Hound’s, then met Hound’s gaze. “I fell in love with another mech.” He paused, thinking of Tempest’s quick smile and deep laugh. “He was wonderful. But he wasn’t pure. He didn’t have door wings. At some point in the past, his lineage had been contaminated by a non-Praxian.” He laughed quietly. “That’s what the priests call it. ‘Contamination.’”

“What happened?” Hound asked.

“We were caught. The… My sire caught us together.” As the memories washed over him, Bluestreak’s spark was spinning so fast, it felt as though it might whirl right out of its chamber. “He told the priests. Then they ordered...” His vocalizer spat static as he remembered seeing the look of terror on Tempest’s face as he was dragged away, and remembered himself screaming his lover’s designation as the guards held him back. He remembered his anguish, and his anger. Bluestreak reset his vocalizer, determined to tell Hound the rest of the story. “They executed him for daring to ‘violate’ a mech who might produce the vessel for Primus’ return to Cybertron.”

“Oh, Blue.” Bluestreak was wrapped in a tight hug, Hound’s helm resting on his shoulder. “I am so, so sorry.” 

Bluestreak allowed himself to be held, letting his spark’s spin calm. He had told Hound who he was running from. The rest of the details were unimportant, as far as Hound understanding why he hid. A part of him wondered if Hound would treat him differently if he knew who he really was. “There’s more, but… That’s the important part. That’s what I need to be alert for. Anyone looking for a pure Praxian could have been sent by the priests. There are stories of Praxians being dragged back home by collection squads, and then kept under lock and key.” He lowered his helm. “That’s why I bound my wings every day for so long. I couldn’t let myself be identified as full-framed, even to non-Praxians. Stories get around, and we’re rare enough outside of Praxus that mechs would remember me. I will never go back, to be imprisoned and let myself be bonded to a mech that I didn’t choose for myself.”

Hound was still for a moment. Then he said, “You are a fellow Ranger, and my friend, and... maybe more.” He blew a vent of air across Bluestreak’s shoulder. “I will protect you with my wits, and my frame, and my spark, for as long as you’ll let me.” Bluestreak turned his helm and saw Hound’s optics gleaming brightly. “If they come for you, I will never let them take you. Not while I still function.”

A warmth spread out from Bluestreak’s spark to every extremity of his frame. Resting his helm against Hound’s, he whispered, “Thank you, Hound.”


	8. Lingering Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the start of some interfacing, but we "draw the curtains" before they get started. ;)

It was startling how easy it was to fall into a new routine.

Ironhide asked Bluestreak to work with some of the Rangers who needed help with their shooting skills. As Bluestreak helped them hone their technique, he realized that he genuinely enjoyed helping others learn. His experience on the Rangers’ training fields made him think that maybe he would have been happier as a drill sergeant instead of the command position he had been given in Praxus.

But while Bluestreak was the undisputed champion of the target range, he was still an underachiever in hand-to-hand. 

“Come on. I’ve got a much higher center of gravity than you do. Use that to your advantage!” Sideswipe exclaimed, and gestured for Bluestreak to come at him again. Bluestreak went in low, lunging forward in a diving attack, but Sideswipe dropped to a knee and met his rush with a block.

“You’re broadcasting your movements long before you make them,” the red mech said, helping Bluestreak to his pedes again. “Stop thinking about it, and just do it.”

“I didn’t think about it for that long,” Bluestreak said with a grimace.

Sideswipe laughed. “Long enough for me to know exactly what you were going to do. Come on, let’s try it again.”

Outside of training, Bluestreak accompanied Sunstreaker to the cathedral two or three times a deca-cycle. “How come Sideswipe never comes with you?” Bluestreak asked.

Sunstreaker snorted quietly. “Sideswipe has a hard time sitting still for a breem, let alone a full groon,” he said. After a moment he quietly added, “He does come along occasionally. But he does a lot better dealing with his chaotic spark and processor than I do with mine.”

In the cathedral, Bluestreak sat quietly next to the large yellow mech. Bluestreak could have asked the priests for a line from the ancient texts to meditate on, but he preferred to let his processor go idle. He would just sit, content to simply exist. He much preferred this style of devotion to Primus, rather than the loud exultations and ringing chastisements of the Praxian priests. This felt more dignified.

Once in a while, while letting his processor drift blankly, Bluestreak felt **something**. It was fleeting at first, to the point where he wasn’t even sure he’d really felt anything at all. But as time went on, the feeling grew more defined. It felt as though another presence was with him in his spark – a presence that was caring, loving, and forgiving. 

The sensation reminded him of the merging of two sparks into one, the most intimate and personal ways to share yourself with another. Everything you were and everything the other mech was became one, whirling around each other in a perfect dance of understanding and love. Bluestreak had only ever shared sparks with Tempest, and the first time he made the comparison between this feeling and merging with his lover, he sat up straight and sucked air in through his vents sharply in shock.

“Are you all right?” Sunstreaker asked quietly, his blue optics locked on Bluestreak.

Still reeling from the association he’d made between what he was feeling and his memories of Tempest, Bluestreak nodded. “Yeah. I just… felt something. In here.” He put his hand on his chest plate over his spark.

Sunstreaker’s optics brightened. “Like you were merging with someone?” When Bluestreak nodded, a soft smile spread over Sunstreaker’s lips. “I’ve felt that, too, every once in a while. The priests said it’s from forming a deeper connection with Primus.”

Bluestreak was still unsure about the Iaconian dogma, and was trying to reconcile it with the lessons he’d received in his youth. To imply that Primus himself was – what, spark merging with him? That seemed too far out there. 

Knock Out provided a very different perspective. “Achieving altered states of consciousness is a recognized effect of a deep meditation practice,” he said when Bluestreak asked him about it. 

Bluestreak leaned back on his berth. The two mechs had the room to themselves that night; Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were out together, probably at Maccadams. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “So when you swore the oath, you did so to Primus. You pledged everything to him. And yet you’re an avowed atheist. What gives?”

Looking up from his task of waxing his leg struts, Knock Out smiled. “Ahh, you are not the first mech to ask me that,” he said. “It’s quite simple. Where others ascribe divine meaning to or influence on the decisions that the Prime makes, I contend that they come wholly from his own processor.” He switched to a buffing cloth to perfect his finish. “On the other hand, his decisions have seemed wise and knowledgeable, and I would trust him with my own spark. So, when I swore the oath, I considered the words to be metaphorical. In my mind, I have sworn an oath to serve and protect the Prime… Not the deity that he represents to his people.” He waved the cloth in his hand at Bluestreak. “After all, we are called the Prime’s Rangers… Not Primus’ Rangers.”

Bluestreak nodded but said nothing, and watched Knock Out finish his polishing.

On the one hand, there was Sunstreaker: totally and completely devoted to Primus. He seemed to believe in Primus unconditionally, and credited the deity with saving his life. On the other hand was Knock Out: a skeptic and non-believer who viewed the world through a scientific filter. In Praxus he would have been punished for even thinking the things he explained so casually, let alone saying them out loud.

Bluestreak decided he’d prefer to find a middle ground between the two extremes.

* * *

Since Bluestreak had arrived in Iacon, Perceptor had taken every opportunity to wring every bit of information about charms he could out of the Praxian.

First, Bluestreak had dutifully sat with the alchemist in his lab, listing off every charm that he knew. Then he listed the ingredients needed to create the charm, and detailed the process to apply it to an object. Perceptor asked incredibly detailed questions, but Bluestreak patiently regurgitated everything he could remember from his training in Praxus.

It turned out that some of the Praxian charms were variations on ones that Perceptor knew, but others were wholly unknown to him. On the other hand, it quickly became obvious that some of the enchantments that Perceptor knew weren’t known in Praxus at all.

“It’s not surprising that there would be this gap in knowledge after three hundred vorn of isolation,” Perceptor said one night when they were wrapping up their discussions. “I can’t remember the last time that any scholar was allowed into Praxus.”

Frowning, Bluestreak said, “But that’s not true. We had visiting scholars all the time. I remember seeing some of them when I was a youngling,” he said. He thought for a moment. “Although I think most of them were from Nyon.”

“Nyon?” Perceptor paused. “They’ve been just as isolated, although not for as long. I didn’t know Nyon and Praxus had a connection like that.”

Bluestreak shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought about it much, so I don’t think I realized they only came from Nyon until just now. We had other visitors sometimes, too… Traders, mostly, and they came from all over.”

The alchemist hummed as he finished putting away his notes. “Maybe I should cross-reference what you’ve told me with the information I have on Nyon.”

Bluestreak thought that would be the end of it, but a few cycles after he told Perceptor he didn’t remember anything else, he was called back to the lab. The alchemist had Bluestreak’s enchanted knife on his lab table, and was jotting notes down on a pad next to him. 

“Ah, Bluestreak, please come in.” Perceptor gestured at a stool beside the bench. “I wanted to ask you about the charm you applied to this blade.”

Confused, Bluestreak began to say, “All right. But I gave you the ingredients for the sharpness charm, and the –“

“No, no, no.” Perceptor waved his hand. “I have all of that information. But you camouflaged the charm somehow. I almost missed it completely. I wanted to ask you how you disguised it.”

“Right.” Bluestreak glanced at the perfectly ordinary-looking knife, then said, “Err, first a question of my own. When I was taught how to hide an enchantment, my tutor was fairly confident that it would render the charm completely undetectable.” He tilted his helm. “How...?”

“Ah!” Perceptor hopped off his stool and retrieved a brown lump from the shelf behind him. “I discovered it with this.” He handed the rock to Bluestreak.

Bluestreak took the rock and examined at it. It was brown, lumpy, and a rock. “I’m guessing it has some kind of enchantment of its own?” he asked.

“Set it down next to the knife,” Perceptor said.

Bluestreak sat the rock down on the table next to the knife, and jerked his hand back as the rock suddenly flared with a brilliant blue light. “Primus!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like that.” He peered at it closer. “So it detects the presence of a charm?”

“Even better,” Perceptor said, his tone gleeful. “It’s colour-coded. Blue for a charm to change the properties of an object, red for something that would cause damage, green for something that would repair, orange for something that will change how something is perceived, yellow for changing how someone will act or feel...”

“That’s amazing,” Bluestreak said, honestly excited. His door wings fanned the air behind him. “Was it hard to do? Is this the only one you have?”

Perceptor frowned. “It is a little fiddly to complete, and this was just a prototype.”

“Wait, you came up with this yourself?” Bluestreak looked at Perceptor, astounded. Although he only had a basic grasp on alchemical science, Bluestreak knew enough to understand the brilliance that went into this feat. 

“It’s what I do,” Perceptor said, a hint of pride in his tone. He moved the rock away from the knife again, and it faded back to the dull brown colour it had been before. “Now, back to what we were talking about... How did you disguise the enchantment?”

* * *

Little by little, cycle by cycle, Bluestreak allowed himself to relax. Eventually, whole deca-cycles would go by without his processor throwing warnings at him, telling him that he needed to check who was looking at him, or think about where to run next. It was like he’d been living a nightmare for eleven vorn, and was finally waking back up.

He had a home. He had friends. He had a lover. He had a **purpose**. 

Hound noticed, and said so one evening as they lay in a sticky heap in one of the rooms at Maccadams. Hound lay between Bluestreak’s legs, his helm pillowed on Bluestreak’s chest, and Bluestreak’s arms were wrapped around Hound’s frame, holding him close.

“You’re different,” Hound said.

“Different from what?” Bluestreak asked absently. He’d been grazing his lips over the top of Hound’s helm, lost in his own thoughts.

“You’ve changed from when you first got here,” Hound said. He twisted in Bluestreak’s grasp so he could look up at the Praxian’s face. “Before you were... I don’t know, suspicious about everything. Jumpy. But now you seem a lot more relaxed.” He smiled. “I kind of like the new Blue.”

With a quiet laugh, Bluestreak said, “I don’t think it’s the new Blue... It just the one I left behind.”

Gradually, as he became more comfortable and he let down his guard more and more, Bluestreak felt normal. He felt like himself. And as he discovered one night at Maccadams, his old personality subroutines began to resurface. 

Bluestreak was sitting at a table with the twins and Hound, telling them a story about a crooked merchant his employer uncovered while Bluestreak was working in Altihex. “So when Hardhelm showed Savagespin that he’d been tricked into putting the pallet on a scale, and that with the invoice and scale reading right there it was obvious that he’d been short-changing the deliveries, Savagespin laughed in Hardhelm’s face and said that even if he had the proof, the city guards would never take the word of a construction worker over a merchant. Then Savagespin turned to leave, and there was a city guard standing right behind him! Hardhelm had called for the guards earlier and told them what he wanted to do, so the guard heard everything thing and arrested Savagespin on the spot!” Bluestreak’s door wings fluttered excitedly behind him as he remembered the incident. “A lot of mechs came forward later saying that they suspected Savagespin was cheating them somehow, but had never been able to prove it, so it ended up helping out a lot of other mechs, too.” Bluestreak paused, his smile sliding off of his face as he looked around the table. “Why are you all looking at me like that?” he asked.

“Because you haven’t shut up in about a groon,” Sideswipe said with a smirk. 

His optics widening, Bluestreak ducked his helm. “Oh. Sorry. I guess I just got carried away.”

“It’s all right,” Sideswipe said. “They were all interesting stories! We’ve just never heard you talk like that before.”

Glancing at Hound out of the corner of his optics, Bluestreak shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s... it’s where my designation came from, originally. Someone once told me that I should have been called Bluestreak because I could talk a blue streak. When I left Praxus, I took it as my designation.” 

“I think it fits you,” Hound said, casually resting his hand on Bluestreak’s thigh. They’d become a bit more demonstrative of their affection for each other, especially since Bluestreak’s roommates had picked up on their relationship almost as soon as it had happened. “Besides, I don’t think I could ever call you anything other than Blue.”

“Well, good, because that’s who I am now,” Bluestreak said with a smile, and stood up. “Does anyone else want another drink?”

After his threat-assessment protocols did not even twinge when he’d explained where his new designation had come from, Bluestreak thought that maybe he really had left his fear behind him. He’d told Hound why he had run, and given so much information to so many mechs in Iacon that anyone who came here specifically looking for him would have no problem matching Bluestreak to the mech they were searching for.

He soon discovered that he had one fear left, though: Hound finding out who he really was.

* * *

Hound’s hands were all over him as soon as Bluestreak had kicked the door closed behind him. The green mech ran his hands up Bluestreak’s door wings, across their upper edges, and then dragged his digits roughly down the hinges where his wings met his back. Bluestreak moaned and pulled Hound towards the berth. 

“I want you to spike me tonight,” Bluestreak said, shivering as Hound dug his digits into his hips. “Hard and fast. Like I do to you.”

His engine growling in response, Hound pushed Bluestreak down onto the berth and climbed on top of him. His weight was heavy on Bluestreak’s frame, pressing him down onto the berth cushion. “I can definitely do that,” he said. He paused, straddling Bluestreak’s legs and looking down at him with a strange glint in his optics. “But I was thinking that maybe... We could do something more this time, too.”

“More?” Bluestreak rested his hands on Hound’s thighs, rubbing little circles on them with his thumbs. “Like what?”

Hound’s expression suddenly went shy. He put his hands on Bluestreak’s chest plate, and massaged his hands up and down the metal gently, and running his digits over the center seam in his armor. Watching Bluestreak closely, he said, “I’d really like to share sparks with you.” When he saw Bluestreak’s optics widen, he quickly added, “It doesn’t have to be tonight. You know, if you need to get an ignition block, Ratchet can install one for you. But I would like to, eventually.”

Memories of the first time he’d shared sparks with Tempest flickered through his processor, but that was not what caused his hands to tighten on Hound’s legs. Rather, it was the realization that he **did** want to share sparks with Hound, but...

Bluestreak looked up at the mech straddling him. He looked at this unbelievably trusting, caring and kind mech who had given him a second chance even after Bluestreak had attacked him, and ended up becoming his best friend and his lover. This mech in whom Bluestreak had confided his secrets. 

Most of his secrets.

With a stuttering vent, Bluestreak realized that although he thought that he might love Hound, he was afraid of sharing his spark with him. To do so would mean that Hound would find out who Bluestreak was... And that might change the way Hound felt about Bluestreak. It might change the way Hound treated Bluestreak. 

Bluestreak was terrified of changing anything in their relationship. Not when everything was so good right now.

“I... I can’t,” Bluestreak said. He turned his helm to the side, shutting his optics to block out the look of disappointment on Hound’s face. “I can’t. Not now.” He opened his optics again and met Hound’s optics. Fumbling around until he caught Hound’s hands in his, Bluestreak rushed to add, “But I want to! Trust me. I want to, so bad. I just...” Bluestreak glanced away again.

“Hey, that’s fine.” Hound leaned down, nuzzling the side of Bluestreak’s helm. “I shouldn’t have sprung that on you like that anyway.” He kissed Bluestreak’s chevron, then his nose, and then his lips. When he pulled back to look at Bluestreak again, he said, “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you.” Bluestreak smiled, trying to set aside his doubts, and stroked a hand down Hound’s cheek. “Now... I think I was promised a proper spiking.”

With a laugh, Hound latched his lips to Bluestreak’s again, and his touches made Bluestreak’s spark sing.


	9. Feral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "robot gore" mentioned in the tags shows up starting with this chapter.

It was a brilliantly crisp day. The sun shone down through the crystal spires of the forest Bluestreak and Sunstreaker were patrolling, casting radiant reflections on the ground and on their alt modes as they passed by.

Bluestreak had patrolled along this section of the border with Nyon so often that every meter seemed to be burned into his processor. They were entering one of the denser areas of the crystal forest, and Bluestreak kept his sensors peeled. The last time he’d patrolled this way with Blurr, they had seen a turbofox bolt into the undergrowth. Bluestreak had never seen one before, and he wanted to get a better look if they encountered another one.

Sunstreaker was quiet while they drove, as usual. He would answer questions that Bluestreak might ask, but otherwise was silent. Bluestreak didn’t mind, since it gave him time to think.

Iacon had signed the mutual aid treaty with Vos a stellar cycle before. Tarn and Polyhex had also sent envoys to discuss border issues with the Prime. It seemed that all of the countries bordering Nyon were experiencing an uptick in refugees who were running from the horrors they had experienced at the hands of Chancellor Shockwave and his goons. The ones that could speak told of mechs being tortured, and piles of deactivated frames lying outside the camps. 

As well, Vos and Tarn had found mechs dismembered and drained of energon near their borders with Nyon. Both countries had stepped up their border patrols, just as Iacon had.

As they rolled along, Bluestreak wondered whether Praxus was having people attempting to enter. He suppressed a snicker; surely that would be an issue that the border guards there had never had to handle. Usually mechs were trying to get **out** of Praxus so that they could live their lives free of interference from the priests and the crown. The only outside mechs who were allowed in legally were traders and scholars who had been pre-approved by the priests, and even then they were escorted around until they left the country again. 

Bluestreak’s reverie was broken by a guttural roar, coming from some distance ahead. “Did you hear that?” he asked Sunstreaker.

Before Sunstreaker could answer, the roar was answered by a piercing scream of fear, one that came unmistakably from a mech.

“Let’s go!” Sunstreaker ordered, and accelerated into the dense grove ahead.

Bluestreak followed the yellow racer, struggling to keep pace with him. From ahead, there was another scream, and a panicked shout that sounded like someone’s designation. The shout came again and was suddenly choked off in a squeal of feedback.

Sunstreaker disappeared around a large stand of crystals, and Bluestreak followed him blindly. He emerged from the thick grove into a clearing, and slammed on his brakes when he saw the yellow mech standing right in front of him, crouched in a battle-ready pose. Transforming as he skidded, Bluestreak came to a stop next to Sunstreaker and readied his rifle automatically as his processor tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

The clearing was full of mechs, but they didn’t look like any mechs Bluestreak had seen before. They seemed to be twisted, nightmarish caricatures of mechs. They moved in a crouch, scuttling along the ground with a strange, bent posture. Their frames were grey, and their optics were dark. 

They looked like corpses crawling around.

There were maybe a dozen of these strange mechs, clustered around two greying frames on the ground. Some of the mechs were hunched over the frames, and to Bluestreak it looked as though they were licking them. Then he realized they were **sucking** on them: they had pulled out the main fuel lines and were sucking the fuel from the inert frames.

Bluestreak watched in horror as one of the strange mechs ripped the leg off one of the frames, and latched his mouth to the torn line that was exposed. Another mech grabbed the dismembered leg and began draining it of fuel. His tanks lurched at the sight.

It only took a few moments for all of this to register in Bluestreak’s processor. In that time, half of the mechs looked up from their feast and saw the Rangers standing on the edge of the clearing. One peeled away from the main group and began creeping towards them, a growl emanating from its vocalizer.

A mech that was perched on one of the frames glared at the Rangers, then opened his mouth and shrieked in fury. The feral sound made Bluestreak’s engine stall in shock. It sounded like something from the Pit: deranged and malevolent.

Then he heard the whine of a rifle powering up, followed by a sharp crack. Sunstreaker fired his weapon at the mech that was crawling towards them. His shot got it in the throat, and it staggered backwards. 

With a visible open wound in its throat, the mech shook its helm and kept crawling towards them.

“Frag!” Bluestreak shouldered his rifle and shot the mech in the helm. His round destroyed everything from its optics up, and it dropped to the ground, twitching. 

The mechs that were feeding on the frames all looked up at once as their companion fell. They rose as one, and began to run towards the Rangers.

They moved far faster than they looked like they should.

“Target the helm!” Bluestreak shouted as he and Sunstreaker fired again and again. 

There were so many of them. They moved so fast. Bluestreak moved as if on autopilot, targeting and firing shot after shot. In the brief few moments they had, Sunstreaker took out two while Bluestreak felled four, but then the remaining mechs were on them.

With a deep roar, Sunstreaker dropped his weapon and threw himself at the mechs. He ripped the helm off of the first one while two others attached themselves to his arms. 

Bluestreak backed up a step and fired at the two mechs who hadn’t quite reached them yet, taking both of them down. Then he heard a noise behind him and whirled.

More of the strange mechs had appeared out of the crystal grove behind them. Before Bluestreak even had a chance to shout a warning, they swarmed out of the grove onto the Rangers.

Everything happened in a blur. Sunstreaker roared in fury, ripping limbs from the advancing mechs and using them as weapons against their fellows. Bluestreak managed to shoot two more before they were on him as well.

Bluestreak screamed in agony as a set of sharpened dentae latched onto his neck cords, seeking to rip them open. He shoved the mech’s head aside, rolling to land an elbow on the mech’s helm. He twisted to throw another one off his back, and managed to get off a hip shot with his rifle before that mech could launch itself at him again.

Somewhere off to his left he heard Sunstreaker bellow again, a sound of pure rage.

A weight hit him from behind, and he dropped his rifle, landing hard on his chest. As his HUD filled with damage reports, Bluestreak tried to roll over, but the mech had him pinned. He felt teeth sink into the delicate edge of his right door wing, pulling and ripping at the metal. 

Bluestreak screamed again, his processor unable to filter out the pain. He managed to push himself up to his hands and knees, but then he was bowled over by a mech hitting him from the side. He landed on his other side, and shouted as the mech bit into his throat, seeking his main fuel line.

With a sudden certainty, Bluestreak knew that he was going to die here.

_Hound. I’m so sorry._

Then he heard another roar, and the mech was yanked from his neck. He heard a sickening crunch, and then the other mech was pulled from his back, its dentae raking along the edge of his door wing. Bluestreak looked up to see Sunstreaker throw the mech to the ground. The yellow mech fell to his knees and sent a punch through the mech’s head, pulverizing it.

Dismissing as many of the damage reports as he could, Bluestreak struggled to get to his knees. His ventilations came in rough bursts as his systems tried to cool themselves. He scrabbled around frantically for a moment until his hand closed on his rifle that he’d dropped during the melee. 

Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, he scanned the clearing, looking for any more mechs.

There were none. Grey mechs were scattered motionless around the clearing, most of them near where he and Sunstreaker sat. Bluestreak lowered his weapon and turned to the yellow mech. With alarm, Bluestreak saw that Sunstreaker’s usually immaculate armor was spattered all over with energon. Some of it appeared to be his... Possibly all of it. “Are you...?” 

Bluestreak froze when Sunstreaker’s helm whipped around, his optics focused like lasers on him. They were not the optics of the serene mech that he knew, but those of a killer: cold and emotionless. Sunstreaker’s lip curled in a silent snarl. 

Recoiling slightly, Bluestreak said, “Sunstreaker? It’s me... Bluestreak.”

Sunstreaker stared at him for a long moment with a murderous expression. Then, Sunstreaker closed his optics and shook his helm. He took a long, deep vent, letting the air out slowly with a whine. Sunstreaker slumped, catching himself from crashing face first into the ground with a hand at the last second. 

Bluestreak reached a hand towards the larger mech. “Are you hurt? Do you need me to –“

Sunstreaker’s head snapped up and he growled at Bluestreak. The red and grey mech froze. “Don’t touch me.” Sunstreaker’s voice was rough and gravelly. “Don’t even come near me.” He lowered his helm again. With what seemed to be a huge effort, he said, “Just... Give me a klik... to come down.”

_After so long in the pits... I was not a nice person. I’m still not, deep inside, Sunstreaker had said._

“Right.” At Bluestreak’s quiet word the yellow mech shuddered. Bluestreak climbed to his pedes and backed slowly away. “I’m going to make sure we got them all.”

Sunstreaker nodded without looking up. As Bluestreak backed away, he heard Sunstreaker quietly muttering to a prayer to himself.

Bluestreak walked a circuit of the clearing, examining the frames on the ground as he went. He found two of the strange greyed mechs that were still moving, both of which had apparently been felled by Sunstreaker. Most of their limbs were broken and useless or detached from their frames altogether, but still the mechs wriggled in the dirt, trying to drag themselves towards Bluestreak.

He put a round in each of their helms, destroying their processors.

After deactivating the second mech, Bluestreak realized his hands were shaking. He paused, looking down at them in confusion before the reality of the situation came crashing down on him like an ice storm. 

Bluestreak had just helped kill over twenty mechs. In all his vorn of training and practice and serving in the Praxian cavalry, he had never once killed another mech. In his eleven vorn on the run, he had never turned his weapon on another mech. 

Bluestreak pulled air in through his intake, and forced his processor to slow to an idle like it did when he sat in the cathedral. 

Vent in. Vent out. 

The strange mechs would have killed him if he hadn’t killed them first. His frame ached where the mechs had clawed at his armor, and his neck was still burning in pain. Bluestreak pressed a hand to his neck where it hurt, and pulled it away to see his digits drenched with energon. One of the mechs had bitten through his main fuel line. He saw that energon was dripping from his neck onto his shoulder and chest armor.

“Frag,” Bluestreak muttered. He didn’t feel woozy yet, so hopefully his fuel line was just nicked. He looked back across the clearing. Sunstreaker was still kneeling and bent, his helm resting on the ground. Bluestreak noticed with concern that the ground under Sunstreaker was bright with energon; Sunstreaker was leaking, probably badly.

Hopefully he would let Bluestreak help him soon.

Bluestreak fished his field repair kit out of his compartments and found a mesh bandage. Using some flex tape, he applied the bandage as firmly as he could to the wound on his neck. Without being able to see what he was doing, it was the best he could do. It probably wasn’t pretty, but it would hold for a few groons at least. 

Bluestreak walked over to the two mechs who the strange greyed mechs had been feeding on when they interrupted them. The first was lying on his back, staring up at the sky with an expression of horror frozen on his face. His throat had been ripped out, and he lay in a pool of his own energon. The other mech was face down, also leaking energon. The second was also missing a leg.

“Frag,” Bluestreak said again, his vocalizer crackling. If they’d only gotten here a little sooner...

“Bluestreak.”

Bluestreak whirled and saw Sunstreaker standing, listing awkwardly. His lower left leg was covered in energon, and he held a hand to his neck.

Taking a cautious step towards the yellow mech, Bluestreak saw that Sunstreaker’s optics were once again the ones he knew. “Can I come closer?” He held up the repair kit.

Sunstreaker nodded weakly. Bluestreak approached cautiously, leaving his rifle slung over his shoulder and holding his hands out. Sunstreaker smiled a little and tottered towards him a step. “I’m... better now,” he said. 

When Bluestreak reached the yellow mech, Sunstreaker had dropped back to his knees again. Bluestreak crouched next to him and gave him a quick inspection. “Your leg is pretty bad... Let me get a clamp on that line first,” he said.

Sunstreaker sat quietly as Bluestreak worked, stopping the worst of the leaks and patching up what he could. It seemed like most of the energon on Sunstreaker’s frame was his own, from all the rips and tears he’d received at the dentae and claws of the grey mechs. 

When he finished patching the worst of the damage, Bluestreak glanced up at the sun. “I’d like to get out of this clearing before the sun sets,” he said. Everywhere he looked there were dead mechs that they had deactivated. He didn’t relish the thought of spending the night amongst them.

“Sides is coming,” Suntreaker said quietly. His optics were dim, and Bluestreak hurriedly retrieved a ration of fuel from his compartments to give to the larger mech. Sunstreaker took it gratefully. “I... I think he’ll be here before sunset.”

Frowning, Bluestreak asked, “How do you know? And… How does he know we need help?” He had been worrying over how to get Sunstreaker back to Iacon City, since the damage that he’d sustained would probably prevent him from transforming. 

“We’re split-spark twins,” Sunstreaker said with a little smile. “It’s one of the advantages of only having half a spark.” The smile flickered and faded as he added, “He felt me go into my battle rage over our bond. He’s worried. He’ll be coming with help.”

Twins were so rare, Bluestreak had never met another pair in all his existence. He had known that the brothers were twins, but he had never pried into their relationship any further than that. Split-spark twins were even more rare. Bluestreak nodded to himself, putting together all the little pieces he’d overlooked since he’d met the twins, like how they seemed to know what the other was thinking before they said anything, or how they kept running off to Maccadams regularly. His imagination tried to supply him with an image of the twins twisted together, their sparks merging, but he quickly pushed it away. “Help is on the way?” Bluestreak finally said. “That’s good to hear. But...” He looked around the clearing again.

Sunstreaker nodded, understanding. “Let’s get out of here.” He pushed himself back onto his pedes. Leaning on Bluestreak, they slowly walked back the way they had come.

* * *

Sideswipe reached them just as the sun was setting. He didn’t come alone: Ratchet, Ironhide and Hound were with him. Ratchet came because Sideswipe knew his twin was hurt. Ironhide wanted to see for himself what had happened to two of his Rangers, and Hound was their best tracker.

Hound transformed while he was still rolling, running forward alongside Sideswipe. As the red mech pulled Sunstreaker to the ground into a tight embrace, Bluestreak found himself held up by Hound’s strong arms. “Frag, Blue, what happened to you?” the green mech said, his tone as worried as Bluestreak had ever heard it. “Sideswipe said that...” He looked over to where Sideswipe had his face buried in his twin’s chest. “He said Sunstreaker thought he was going to deactivate.”

Bluestreak nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted. Now that help had arrived, his battle protocols were finally going into standby. He hurt all over. “I thought so too.” He shuddered and looked at Sunstreaker. Ratchet was examining the wound on the yellow mech’s leg, working around the red mech that was draped over his twin’s frame.

“What happened to you two?” Ironhide asked, his voice strangely gentle. 

Bluestreak looked up at him wearily, and jerked his helm back the way they’d come. “That way. Just follow our trail back. Shouldn’t take you too long to find it. There’s a clearing with about two dozen dead mechs in it.”

“Two dozen?” Ironhide asked in disbelief. 

“Give or take.” Bluestreak shrugged, hissing in pain as the motion jostled the door wing that one of the mechs had ripped into. “Except they weren’t... right. They were like attack drones, or mechanimals. Feral. They...” He shuddered again.

“You can interrogate them when we get them back to Iacon City,” Ratchet snapped at Ironhide. He examined the bandage that Bluestreak had applied to his own neck, and tutted over his other injuries. “I have to admit you did a pretty good job patching the two of you up. The clamp job you did on Sunstreaker’s leg probably saved his limb... Maybe more. Where did you learn how to do that?” Ratchet asked.

“I picked it up here and there,” Bluestreak said.

Ratchet’s optics narrowed as Ironhide let out a guffaw. “Here and there. Right.” The medic stood and said, “Do you feel all right to transform? Because I’m going to carry Sunstreaker back myself and I don’t have room for two.”

Bluestreak nodded, and accepted Hound’s assistance to get back on his pedes. “I’ll be fine. Let’s get him home.”

* * *

Bluestreak felt as though he’d been kicked from one side of Cybertron to the other. Ratchet had patched up the fuel line in his neck, giving him another rough compliment about his field repair skills, and put mesh bandages over the worst of the damage to his door wings. Bluestreak hated having bandages on his wings, since they dulled his sensors slightly, but the medicated grease that Ratchet had applied to the wounds under the bandages was doing a wonderful job of easing the pain.

After the medic had discharged him, Bluestreak was whisked to the Prime’s office. He spent the next few groons recounting the battle to the Prime, Ironhide and Ultra Magnus. A map had been laid out on a table in the Prime’s office, and it was marked with all the locations where the Rangers had found dismembered frames over the past orbital cycle. A red mark on the map showed where Bluestreak and Sunstreaker had been attacked. Aside from the locations all being within fifty kilometers of the border, there didn’t appear to be any pattern to them.

The three command mechs grilled Bluestreak on what he and Sunstreaker had seen when they entered the clearing, where all of the mechs were, who fired the first shot, and so on. Bluestreak recounted the battle as best he could, but he left out Sunstreaker’s reactions immediately after they had stopped fighting. Fortunately, they seemed more concerned with the battle itself than with what happened afterwards.

When he was finally released, Bluestreak trudged back to the barracks. All he wanted to do was collapse into his berth and recharge for the next orbital cycle.

But when he entered the room, he saw Sideswipe sitting on the side of his berth. His elbows were on his knees, and he held his face in his hands. He looked up when Bluestreak entered the room, and smiled. His expression was a ghostly version of the confident grin he usually gave to the Praxian. “Hey Bluestreak,” he said softly.

Bluestreak had last seen Sideswipe in the infirmary, hovering over Sunstreaker. “I figured you’d still be with your brother,” Bluestreak said, sitting on his own berth with a thunk. “How is he?”

“Ratchet kicked me out. He said I could come back in the morning.” Sideswipe’s engine made a strange sound, then quieted again. “Sunny’s going to be ok. Thanks to you, Ratchet said. You saved his life.”

Frowning, Bluestreak said, “Ratchet said maybe just his leg.”

Sideswipe shook his helm. “Once Ratchet got in there, he saw all the damage you patched up with that kit. He said Sunny would have bled out if you hadn’t clamped that line in his leg as well as you did.” He stared at Bluestreak with flickering optics. “Thank you.”

Bluestreak held up a hand. “Well, he saved my life, too. If he hadn’t been there, those mechs would have ripped me apart in a klik. So... Let’s call it even.”

“But what you did after...” Sideswipe’s voice had fallen lower, almost to the threshold of hearing. 

Bluestreak leaned forward. “After... what?”

The red mech lurched off his berth and dropped to his knees before Bluestreak. He grabbed the grey and red mech’s hands in his black ones, and held them tightly. “Sunny... He goes into rages when he... When he thinks he’s fighting for his life. It’s from our times in the fighting pits.” Sideswipe stared up at Bluestreak earnestly. “He fights, and then he... He can’t stop. He has a hard time coming down. I think it’s one of the reasons our owner didn’t care if we were killed, and kept throwing us into more and more impossible fights. Sunny was hard to handle when he was in his battle rage.” Sideswipe worked his intake. “I felt it come over him today. I haven’t felt him like that since... Since we ran from Kaon. I knew he thought he was going to deactivate. And then... He was afraid of hurting you. Killing you.”

Nodding, Bluestreak said, “I kind of guessed it was something like that.” He squeezed Sideswipe’s hands, trying to reassure him. “He told me to back off, and so I did.” He gave Sideswipe a half-smile. “It seemed like the smart thing to do.”

“He would have killed you if you’d touched him.” Sideswipe spoke with certainty, and his optics were full of sorrow. “That’s the side of him that he hopes Primus can change, but... I’m afraid it’s too much a part of him for it to ever be completely eliminated.” 

“For what it’s worth,” Bluestreak said, carefully choosing his words. “I was glad to have him by my side. He’s the only reason I got out of there alive.”

Sideswipe held Bluestreak’s hands for another moment before letting them go. “I hope Primus knows what he’s doing with my brother,” Sideswipe said, half growling, half laughing. “He’s the only one I have.”


	10. No More Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains spark interfacing.

News that two of the Prime’s Rangers had been attacked on the border with Nyon spread quickly, and rumours began to circulate. The Prime’s order to evacuate the farms along the border and increase patrol groups from two to six mechs did nothing to dispel the rumours.

Some of the city folk said there were packs of wild hellhounds hunting along the border, taking down any mechs who dared travel alone. Others said that Nyon must be testing Iacon by sending troops across the border to see how well guarded it was. Still others, mostly mechs who had had too much to drink, swore there were hordes of monsters stalking through the forests of western Iacon.

Those last ones had no idea how close to the truth they were.

The cycle after Blustreak returned from his disastrous patrol, Hound asked Bluestreak if he felt up to visiting Maccadams that night. “Remember the bard?” the green mech asked. “He’s back in town and performing tonight. With all that’s going on, the place will probably be packed… We might want to get there early.”

Remembering that they had asked the bard for any information he could gather on Praxus, Bluestreak’s door wings twitched upwards. “Right. I’m in. Meet you there at 1800 joors?” he asked.

Hound’s instincts were correct. The pub filled up quickly, and more than half of the crowd was regular city folk who wanted to hear the news firsthand for themselves. It was so crowded that they couldn’t even find a table, so Bluestreak found a corner near the back where they could stand and be out of the way, but still hear clearly. Hound joined him a few kliks later, holding a drink for both of them, and a passcard for an upstairs room. “I’m going on patrol tomorrow for three cycles,” he said with a smile. “I didn’t want to leave without giving you a proper good bye.”

Bluestreak accepted the drink and brushed his lips gently past Hound’s. “You’re a genius sometimes,” he said.

“Only sometimes?” Hound asked, his optics twinkling.

Before Bluestreak could reply, he heard a loud tone coming from the stage as the red and yellow cassette carrier stood up. Blaster waited until the crowd fell silent, then he began to speak. “Greetings. My designation is Blaster, and I bring you news from the surrounding countries of Cybertron. I will begin with the news that I think is on the forefront of everyone’s processor in Iacon: the happenings along the Nyon border.

“Nyon has become a place of misery and terror. The roads in the country are clogged with mechs trying to get as far from the capital city as possible. They speak of press gangs descending on a neighbourhood, and collecting any able-framed mech for the mines. They are marched off and are never heard from again. There are rumours, too, of Chancellor Shockwave amassing a huge army, one large enough to rival that of any surrounding country. These rumours speak of a camp that has been set up outside the capital city, a camp consisting of hundreds of thousands of mechs. Some say they are mercenaries, hired by the Chancellor with the ultimate goal of conquest. Some say they are only drones. Others say they are monsters created in the camps. No one suggests that they are mechs who are willing to fight for the Chancellor, since no one can imagine such a thing. Not now.

“You may note that I have only spoken of rumours. I am afraid that I am unable to give you a firsthand account of conditions in Nyon’s capital city. My cassettes and I crossed the border into Nyon not long ago. After spending only one night at a way station a short distance from the border, we heard of a press gang headed to the very way station where we were staying. So, we turned around and left.”

Blaster bowed his helm and spread his hands. “I do not ask for payment for any of the news from Nyon, since I cannot verify it myself. However, I have collected the rest of the news personally.

“Vos has signed mutual aid treaties with Polyhex and Iacon. Tarn is interested, but is so poor that it cannot muster an army to even protect itself, let alone to protect a friend. Vos, Polyhex and Tarn have all experienced the same flood of refugees over the Nyon border… And the same troubling attacks like you have experienced here. Mechs are being dismembered, but no one has seen whatever is responsible for the carnage. In Vos, an entire town near the border was decimated: over a hundred mechs were found ripped apart and strewn through the streets. Vos is understandably concerned, and is on the verge of invoking the treaty already, even though the ink is barely dry.”

Alarmed murmurs swept through the crowd as Blaster spoke. Bluestreak frowned and met Hound’s optics, and the green mech shrugged slightly. Was it really possible that he and Sunstreaker were the first to survive an attack from these strange mechs? The frames were being brought back to Iacon for examination, and Bluestreak hoped that Perceptor would be able to find something useful in the remains.

“And what of Praxus? The silent kingdom stirs after two hundred years of solitude behind its ivory walls. Praxus has not been immune to the troubles affecting its neighbours. While there are no specifics, Vosians living along the border with Praxus have mentioned that the Praxian border patrols have been stepped up, and the Praxian border guards have become more talkative with their Vosian brethren. One can surmise that whatever evil that has been creeping across the border into Vos, and Tarn, and Iacon is also making its presence known in Praxus.

“But that is not all. Praxus is silent no longer! The kingdom has sent a delegation to Vos to discuss border security. This is the first time in over three hundred vorn that the two countries have held talks.” Another murmur rose, and Bluestreak noticed several glances in his direction. He lowered his door wings as much as possible to make them less eye-catching. For the first time in a very long while, Bluestreak wished that his door wings were securely fastened down against his back again. 

Blaster held up his hand, waiting for quiet again. “The Praxian delegation plans to visit all of the same countries that Vos visited: Tarn, Polyhex, and – yes, Iacon. After so long living in the shadows, Praxus is finally deciding to be an active member in the world it inhabits, and speak to its neighbours.”

A Praxian delegation was coming to Iacon! Bluestreak looked down at his drink, and missed the rest of what Blaster had to say to the crowd. The old panic rose in his intake, and the drink he had just consumed threatened to make a reappearance on the floor as his tanks churned. Surely the delegation would not be allowed to travel without a priest, and temple guards. As soon as they arrived in Iacon, he would be discovered. They would arrest him and take him back to Praxus. He would have to…

Bluestreak felt a hand settle on his wrist. “Are you all right?” Hound asked, concern filling his optics. “You’re shaking.”

Bluestreak looked up. The bard was done speaking. He looked at Hound and said, “They’re coming here, Hound.”

Hound’s hand tightened on his. “With my wits, frame and spark. Remember that. I will never let them take you.”

Nodding shakily, Bluestreak looked up again. The bard was scanning the room. When he met Bluestreak’s optics, Blaster held up a hand and began making his way through the crowd towards them.

“Hello, friends,” Blaster said with a quick smile after he reached them. “I wasn’t sure that I would be able to fulfil my promise to you of news from Praxus, but history had other ideas. If they hadn’t decided to leave Praxus...” 

Standing up straight, Bluestreak leaned towards Blaster. “The delegation from Praxus. Do you know… Have you heard any of the designations of the members? Who is coming here?” he asked with an urgent tone.

Blaster hummed. “I only know what I picked up second hand, I’m afraid. However, the information obtained from several different sources was all the same,” Blaster said. “The servants in Vos who assisted the delegation members were certain that one of the delegates was a priest, while another was one of the princes. We know so little of the royal family in Praxus, but…”

Without thinking, Bluestreak grabbed Blaster’s arm roughly. “Please,” he rasped. “Who? A designation? Or even what they look like?”

Looking slightly affronted, Blaster said, “They mentioned the designations Prince Prowl and High Priest Barricade, but –“

Bluestreak’s door wings flared wide as he stared at Blaster for a moment in shock. Then he pressed a chip into Blaster’s hand. “Thank you. I… I have to go.” Bluestreak grabbed Hound’s hand and began hauling him towards the stairs, the green mech squawking in surprise.

“Wait!” Blaster had looked at the chip and then waved it at Bluestreak. “You gave me too much for what I told you!”

“Keep it!” Bluestreak called over his shoulder, and dragged Hound up the stairs to their rented room.

When they got into their room, Bluestreak locked the door and began fishing around in his compartments. “Blue, what’s wrong?” Hound asked. “What is it about these mechs? Will they know you?” He paused as Bluestreak pulled out the pot of protection charm and began applying the charm to the door frame. “Is that… What are you doing?” Hound asked. 

When he finished with the door, Bluestreak swept over to the window. “Protection against being overheard,” he muttered, and applied the charm to the window as well. When he finished, he tossed the empty pot on the berth and turned towards Hound.

The green mech looked down at the pot, which still looked like a container of wax, then back up at Bluestreak. “You’ve had that all along,” he said, his tone slightly accusatory. 

“Hound, please, just listen to me. I have to tell you something,” Bluestreak said, grabbing Hound’s arms and looking into his optics. “Those mechs… They will know me.”

“You’re a Ranger now,” Hound said, his tone patient and firm. “The Prime will not just let them take you. I won’t let them take you.”

“The Prime may not have a choice.” Bluestreak’s vocalizer crackled with static as he realized he needed to tell Hound everything. “I haven’t told you who I am. I was afraid you might think differently of me, or that you’d change your mind about wanting... Wanting to be with me. I was afraid it might change something between us.”

“What can you possibly tell me that would change how I feel about you?” Hound asked. He lifted a hand and ran it down Bluestreak’s face, a frown on his lips. 

Taking a step backwards, Bluestreak pulled out of Hound’s grasp. He paced away a few steps, then turned to face his lover again. He lowered his wings and bowed his helm. “My designation is not Bluestreak.” 

“You’ve told me that already. And I guessed that when we first met, remember?” Hound asked with a little smile.

Waving his hand, Bluestreak said, “Prince Prowl, one of the delegates coming from Praxus. He will recognize me. He’s my brother.” When Hound’s optics widened slightly, Bluestreak took a deep vent of air and said, “My given designation... and title... is Prince Silverstreak, third creation of King Cygnus of Praxus, High Commander of the First Praxian Cavalry Division, and third in line to the Quartz Throne.” 

Hound cycled his optics. “You’re a… prince?” he asked in disbelief.

Bluestreak nodded, then covered his optics with his hands and waited for Hound’s reaction.

For a long moment, he could only hear the murmur of the crowd in the pub below, filtering up through the floor. Then he sensed Hound move, and suddenly he was wrapped in the green mech’s embrace. Hound pressed his lips against his chevron and pulled him tight against his own frame. “So, you’re even a little more exotic than I thought,” he said quietly. “But I don’t see how that would change how I feel about you.”

Finally opening his optics, Bluestreak looked at Hound. The green mech smiled at him, his optics filled with compassion. “It... it doesn’t?” Bluestreak asked.

Hound shook his helm. “Why would it?”

Bluestreak thought for a moment, his optics searching Hound’s face for any sign of duplicity. Finding none, he felt his spark flutter with hope. “Growing up... I heard what others said about me behind my back. It was bad enough I was full-framed, but royalty as well... They called us spoiled. Greedy. Selfish. Cruel.” He paused to pull in a vent of cool air. “No matter how hard I tried to be kind and fair, the fact that I was created a noble meant that everyone would just assume that I was callous and spiteful.” 

“I don’t see that in you at all,” Hound said. He rested his helm against Bluestreak’s and stroked his thumbs down the Praxian’s cheeks. “Since I’ve met you, you have been nothing but kind and generous.” He laughed at Bluestreak’s astonished expression and kissed his nose. “Slag, did you know that you gave Blaster a twenty shanix chip just now? That’s almost half your wages for the deca-cycle.”

“I did?” Bluestreak asked, distracted. He pulled his helm back from Hound’s, staring at the green mech. His processor was still catching up to the fact that Hound was not reacting like he’d expected. After he left Praxus, while staying at way stations and meeting mechs on the road, he had heard the disgruntled words directed at the upper classes. Snooty. Self-centred. Wasteful. Even Knock Out had used much the same language to refer to the nobles who had run him out of Velocitron. But… Hound smiled back at him, his hands sliding down to his shoulders, and Bluestreak put his own hands on Hound’s shoulders. “You don’t care that I’m...”

“I don’t care if you’re the next in line to be king of Praxus or a guttermech from the slums of Tarn,” Hound said. “You’re my Blue. My wonderful, thoughtful, beautiful Blue. Nothing about where you came from can ever change that.”

Bluestreak’s knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor, his fall slowed by Hound’s supporting arms. He clung to Hound as his spark spun, whirling and pulsing against its chamber. “Hound... I thought you’d...” 

Hound hushed him, holding him close, running his hand down his back. “I’m the same mech I was before you told me where you came from… And so are you.” Hound blew air across the top of Bluestreak’s helm. “I’m happy you finally trusted me enough to tell me, but it won’t change a thing between us.”

“Merge with me,” Bluestreak said suddenly.

Hound pulled back, staring at Bluestreak with a confused look on his face. “W-what?”

“Before, you asked if I wanted to merge, and I said I wanted to but…” Bluestreak put his hands on either side of Hound’s helm, looking at him earnestly. “I was afraid that you’d find out that I was…” His engine stalled and he tried again. “I didn’t want you to find out that way, but I was too afraid to tell you. Please.” He pulled Hound’s helm close to his again. “I don’t want there to be anymore secrets between us,” he whispered.

Hound had begun nodding slowly as Bluestreak spoke, and then a smile lit up his face. “Of course.” He put a hand on Bluestreak’s chest and added, “Um, did you talk to Ratchet…?”

“I’ve had an ignition block installed for vorn, even before I left Praxus. I had an unsanctioned lover that the priests would call ‘impure’... The last thing I needed was a sparkling to prove I was disobeying the temple,” Bluestreak said with a dry laugh. “And Ratchet confirmed the block was still intact when he did my maintenance inspection. So… Please…” He copied Hound’s gesture from a few kliks before, lightly stroking his digits along the green mech’s cheeks, and initiated the sequence to unlock and open his chest plate. “I want you to know me,” he said softly. “And I want to know you.”

After a moment he heard Hound’s chest plate open as well, and Bluestreak looked down. His face was illuminated by his own silvery-white spark, and the bright blue of Hound’s. He leaned forward to rest his chevron on Hound’s helm, and closed his optics, giving himself over to the sensations of his spark meeting another.

Bluestreak felt the sharp tingles as the charged leaders of his spark reached for Hound’s. Wrapping his arms around Hound, he pulled himself closer to his lover, and felt Hound doing the same to him. They pressed their chests and their sparks together, and Bluestreak suddenly felt himself rushing towards Hound, around Hound, through Hound…

Then he was submerged in everything that was Hound: genuine care and concern for other mechs, a love of the wild countryside, a generous spirit, awe and humbleness when he felt the presence of Primus, and a wish to help wherever he could. There was darkness too: flashes of dark and smoky caves, fatigue and pain as he was beaten for not working hard enough, anger at the cruelty and injustice in the world, and a fierce determination to survive and find a way to help others.

Bluestreak was then buffeted by Hound’s joy and wonderment, and an edge of amusement from Hound that he found no surprises in Bluestreak’s spark. Above that was a complete and utter acceptance for who Bluestreak was and everything that he had experienced, from his origins, to his upbringing, to his sorrow at losing his lover, to his flight across Cybertron that eventually led him to Hound. All of it was examined and accepted and loved.

Loved. Bluestreak felt the charge that had been ricocheting between their sparks beginning to crest, threatening to send both of them into overload, but he fought it off for another moment to cling to the knowledge that he was **loved**. Hound loved him. Bluestreak let the emotion swirl around him for a moment, his elation almost overwhelming him in its strength. Then he poured his own love for Hound through their connection, and received a burst of happiness from Hound in response.

As their charge reached the limit that their processors and frames could handle, Bluestreak felt himself tip over the edge of ecstasy in a torrent of affection and devotion. As he fell offline, Bluestreak was certain of only one thing.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

* * *

Much later, sprawled in the berth that they had finally managed to get into, Bluestreak curled his frame around Hound’s as if trying to merge their physical beings the way their sparks had. Round after round of interfacing had left him feeling sore and sated and happily well-used, until Bluestreak’s systems hummed in idle contentment. 

Hound laughed quietly, breaking the silence in the room.

Bluestreak tilted his helm to look into Hound’s blue optics. “What is it?” he asked.

“Just thinking,” Hound said. He looked down at Bluestreak and snugged him closer with an arm. “What do they call the lover of a prince in Praxus?”

“Hmm,” Bluestreak said. He smiled slightly. “Making plans already, are you?”

Hound shrugged. “I’m just curious. Never gave much thought to the doings of royalty, since Nyon hasn’t had a king in ages,” he explained.

Bluestreak resettled his helm against Hound’s shoulder. “Well, if the lover was accepted by the court, which means they were selected by the priests...” Bluestreak’s mouth twisted into a frown. “Then they would be the Prince Consort of the Prince, but ‘Lord’ would be their official title. If the prince ever ascended to the Quartz Throne, then they would become the King Consort.”

“And if the lover wasn’t accepted by the court?” Hound asked.

Chuckling slightly, Bluestreak said, “Then they would just be called trouble.”

“Is there an official title for that? Because I like the thought of being trouble,” Hound said with a grin.

Bluestreak laughed, his door wings wiggling slightly. “No, but I’m sure I could think of one,” he said, stretching up to press his lips to Hound’s.

When their lips parted a few kliks later, Hound’s arms tightened around him again. “Do you ever think you might go back? If things change in Praxus?”

“Things will never change in Praxus,” Bluestreak said flatly. He caught Hound’s expression and waved a hand in the air. “All right, it’s highly unlikely that things will ever change in Praxus. The priests control everything, even the king.” 

“How could the priests have such power?" Hound asked. "Power like that… It needs to be given... Or taken by force.”

Bluestreak’s engine growled. “It was given to them, by the crown and the people, after the Praxian-Vosian War. Praxus was bombed because Vos saw its ideology as blasphemy. In response... Praxus simply doubled-down on what it saw as the truth. The crown – my great-great-grandsire – gave the temple priests the latitude they needed to effect huge social change: working to create a vessel for Primus, lifting full-framed Praxians above all others, and making the temple equal to the throne.”

Hound tightened his arms around Bluestreak. “If the people are unhappy, surely your sire and brothers see that, and want to change things.” 

Frowning, Bluestreak said, “My brothers and I would talk, sometimes, about changing things. But we always got stuck on how to deal with the temple.” He blew a frustrated vent of air and shook his helm. “The temple’s influence is wide-ranging and deep. But even if things did somehow change...” Bluestreak pressed himself into Hound’s side. “I belong here now. With you, and the Rangers, and the Prime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be travelling for the next little while, so updates may be delayed.
> 
> Also, that's kind of the end of Act 2! Hope you're enjoying it so far.


	11. Frequencies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And after many flight cancellations and lost luggage, I'm back home! I didn't get as much writing done as I'd hoped while I was away, so I'm still scrambling to keep a bit ahead of the chapters I'm posting. Next chapter will be next week. :)

It took almost three full cycles for all of the destroyed frames to be hauled back to Iacon. The frames were laid out in a large room in the basement of the citadel so that Perceptor could examine them closely.

Bluestreak helped unload the last of the remains. There were twenty-five in all, a number that seemed too incredible for Bluestreak to even consider. However, with the lifeless frames all around him, it was hard to deny.

“Bluestreak, can you please identify which of these mechs were **not** the ones that attacked you?” Perceptor asked, walking between the rows and jotting down notes on a pad. Ratchet moved from frame to frame, looking at the damage each mech had sustained.

Walking through the tables, Bluestreak looked into each face - the ones that had not been crushed by Sunstreaker’s fists or blown apart by Bluestreak’s rifle, that is. All were the dulled grey of death, but he recognized the mech that had been laying face up when they had entered the clearing. “This one for sure,” he said. He looked at it for a long moment, committing its face to his long-term memory before moving on.

Ratchet bent over the frame, frowning. “His jugular line was ripped clean out,” he said. 

Bluestreak walked past a few more tables before stopping at another frame. This mech had a missing leg, but he was also covered in dried energon. “And this one, I think. The second one was face down, so I didn’t see what he looked like, but there was his leg, and...” Bluestreak scanned the room. “None of the other ones are covered in energon.” 

Not one. Bluestreak suddenly remembered seeing the first mech scrambling towards them. He saw Sunstreaker’s round go through the mech’s neck and out the other side...

And there was no spray of energon. Nor was there one when Bluestreak blew off the top of his helm.

Bluestreak whirled to face Perceptor. “None of them... none of them leaked at all. We shot them, punched them, crushed them...” He stared down at the frame closest to him in growing horror. “They were dry. Empty.”

“Ah.” Perceptor held up a digit, gesturing Bluestreak and Ratchet towards one of the first frames that had been brought in. The chest armor had been removed, revealing the inner workings. “Yes, their lines were dry. But their tanks...” He gestured towards the fuel tank on the partially autopsied mech. “Their tanks were full or mostly full, and sealed so that not even they could use it. They could drink it in, but not use it or expel it. It’s like they were walking around solely to suck up as much energon as they could and just store it.”

“That’s impossible,” Ratchet grumped. “What were they running on? You can’t even run a drone dry.”

Something was nagging Bluestreak, somewhere in the back of his memory. A half-remembered conversation twisted just out of his reach. A mech running dry... Spark energy used as a catalyst for a charm... Someone angrily saying the words “abomination” and “desecration of a spark...”

Perceptor hummed in agreement with Ratchet. “Yet, it’s true. The readings I took of their spark chambers indicated they had active sparks just before their processors were taken offline, but I haven’t worked out what they were running on.”

Suddenly the pieces that had been circling Bluestreak’s processor fell together, and his door wings shot out in alarm.

“Perceptor... That rock you have that detects enchantments. Can you get it?” Bluestreak asked, trying to hold his voice steady and failing badly.

“I tried that,” Perceptor said. He walked over to the far wall where he had put the tools he had brought down from his lab, and picked up the small brown rock. He set it down near one of the destroyed frames. The rock stayed brown.

“See?” Perceptor said.

Bluestreak picked up the rock and set it down next to another mech, one that had a crushed helm. The rock stayed brown. He grabbed the rock from the table and looked around, trying to find a mech with an intact helm. 

Finally, he found one that had been decapitated. Bluestreak fought down the memory of Sunstreaker ripping the helm from its shoulders. The mech’s helm had been set on the table close to its shoulders, and Bluestreak set the rock next to the helm.

The rock flickered, then slowly began to glow with a deep purple light.

“I think I know what purple means,” Bluestreak asked quietly. He looked at Perceptor. “Am I right?”

“I... I don’t...” Perceptor stammered for a moment before recovering himself. “I added it to the charm but I didn’t think I would ever see it.”

“Spit it out, mech,” Ratchet snapped at the alchemist.

“Purple means it detects an enchantment that pulls on the energy of the Unmaker,” Perceptor said, his vocalizer wavering. He looked at Bluestreak. “How did you...”

“I think we need to go talk to the Prime,” Bluestreak said, his door wings drooping.

* * *

The Prime listened intently as Perceptor described the state of the frames that had been brought to Iacon, explaining that they seemed to run on nothing. “I’ll admit that it was a bit of a puzzle, but then Bluestreak here discovered that the processors of the mechs seemed to have been enchanted.”

Looking down at the brown rock that had been set on his desk, the Prime asked, “And you say that purple indicates an enchantment powered by the Unmaker?”

When Perceptor nodded, Ironhide frowned. “How do you know that’s what purple means? Don’t tell me you’ve got somethin’ in your lab that’s cursed.”

“No! Nothing like that.” Perceptor waved his hand, then thought for a moment. “How best to explain... Magical energies operate on different levels… Frequencies, if you will. Spells that repair, for example, will all function on a similar frequency. Many of the frequencies have been mapped, and I used that information to create the detector.” He gestured at the rock on the Prime’s desk.

“I see. So is magic that originates from the Unmaker also mapped?” the Prime asked, looking at Perceptor calmly.

“No, it’s not, but I found a way around that. Prime, you’ll remember a few vorn ago I came to you and asked to take a reading on the Matrix.” The Prime nodded. “That was for this project. Once I determined the frequency emitted by the Matrix, I assigned it the colour white.” Perceptor gestured at the rock again. “Please… Can you hold the rock close to the Matrix?” he asked.

The Prime picked up the rock and brought it in front of his chest, right above where his spark would be. The rock flared with a brilliant white light. “Remarkable,” said the Prime.

Nodding, Perceptor went on. “So, since the Matrix is a relic that permits you to commune closely with Primus, I assumed that any frequency it emitted would be the same as magic used by, or possibly granted by, Primus... Or it would be similar enough, anyway. Then it was a simple matter to determine what the opposite frequency would be, and assign that opposing frequency its own colour. Purple, in this case.”

“The opposite of life is death. The opposite of Primus is the Unmaker,” the Prime said quietly. He set the rock back down on his desk, and it faded back to its regular brown colour. 

“All right. So purple means bad slag. How did Bluestreak figure that out?” Ironhide asked with a growl.

The Prime turned his gentle gaze on Bluestreak. “Yes, Bluestreak. How did you come to the conclusion you reached?” he asked.

Bluestreak’s door wings quivered. “I… It was a conversation I overheard, a long time ago. It just… When Ratchet and Perceptor started talking about how the mechs were dry, and knowing that destroying the processor stopped them, the pieces sort of fell together…” 

Ironhide snorted. “An overheard conversation? Where? Here?”

“No.” Bluestreak looked at Ironhide and Perceptor, then looked back at the Prime. While Hound had accepted him for who he was, Bluestreak did not want the details of his upbringing spread any wider than necessary. He sat up straighter and spread his door wings wide. “Sir… Please… May I explain it to you in private? It… concerns my past... in Praxus.”

“Of course.” The Prime looked back to Perceptor. “Now that you know the source of the enchantment on these mechs, are you able to work out what exactly was done to them? Perhaps even create a way to undo the charm, or a way to block its power?”

“No promises, of course, but I can certainly try. I will also send a message to one of my colleagues to see if he may be of assistance,” Perceptor said, standing up. He hesitated in the doorway, his gaze shifting from the Prime to Ironhide. “Although, it would be very beneficial to have a live subject, if one could be captured intact.”

Ironhide huffed as he walked past the alchemist. “Only if none of my Rangers are put in danger getting it back here,” he said. “Their safety comes first.”

“Yes, yes, that goes without saying,” Perceptor said. He turned to Bluestreak before closing the door behind himself. “Thank you for your assistance.” Bluestreak nodded, and then turned back to the Prime. The large red and blue mech waited while he gathered his thoughts. 

“I have heard that a delegation is coming from Praxus to speak with you,” Bluestreak began. Then he stopped, fidgeted, and started again. “What I’m about to tell you… I’ve told Hound, but no one else. I don’t know how much of this you have figured out – or just somehow known – but I would prefer if as few people as possible learn of it.” 

The Prime nodded. “I understand. I swore you would be able to wipe your slate clean if you wish. But if whatever you are about to tell me concerns the envoy, then I may need to share the information with Ironhide and Ultra Magnus for security reasons.”

Bluestreak considered this, and then nodded. “Of course.” Then he began to explain. 

The Prime listened intently without interrupting as Bluestreak told him his real designation, his origin, and why he fled Praxus. When Bluestreak finally raised his optics to meet the Prime’s again, the larger mech was frowning in compassion. “I don’t think that anyone would blame you for wanting to extract yourself from that situation,” the Prime said. “And as I have told you before, you are a Ranger. You should not worry about being forced to return to Praxus. You belong with us now.”

“Even if that creates an international incident?” Bluestreak asked. “The crown… My brother, and the priests, will be bound by Praxian law to see me returned to do my…” His vocalizer crackled. “…to do my duty and to do my part to prepare for the return of Primus.”

The Prime shook his helm. “You are one of the Prime’s Rangers now. I will explain to them that you are no longer theirs to do with as they please.” The Prime’s firm voice resonated in Bluestreak’s frame, and he shivered. “But we can discuss that later. Now, how did you know that the enchantment placed on the cursed mechs had something to do with the Unmaker?”

Bluestreak nodded, trying to refocus his thoughts. “When I was still in Praxus, growing up – probably about thirty vorn ago – I overheard a conversation between my sire, my eldest brother and one of the temple priests,” Bluestreak began, calling up the memory.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Silverstreak was careful to move quietly so that if his tutor was roaming the hallways looking for him, he would not hear the youngling clattering his way down the stone stairs and drag him back to his studies.

The young prince paused at the landing overlooking the rotunda near his sire’s offices when he heard his brother’s voice exclaim, “I cannot believe you are just going to let them do this!”

“Let me hear him out, Smokescreen,” said their sire’s voice. “You are too hasty in your condemnation.”

Silverstreak had never heard Smokescreen speak to their sire like that. He crept towards the edge of the balcony and peered over the railing.

“I can assure you that the potential benefits far outweigh the negatives, Your Majesty,” said a silkily smooth voice. 

When Silverstreak saw who was speaking he ducked and recoiled from the railing. Barricade! It was bad enough that his tutor was looking for him. If the High Priest saw him skulking about, he would suggest to his sire that the youngling spend more time at the temple scrubbing the floors or copying scrolls. Given a choice, Silverstreak would rather spend all cycle with his tutor than a single klik with the priests.

“If our experiments prove successful, this will solve two of your problems at once,” Barricade was saying. “Imagine: a tireless workforce who will require neither fuel nor rest, which can be used for any purpose necessary: menial labour, dangerous work, or an army completely under your command. And today the prisons are overflowing with deviants who are awaiting execution. We can make use of these blasphemers’ frames, stop wasting resources maintaining them, and make them useful to Praxus at the same time.”

Smokescreen sputtered. “You are talking about experimenting on living mechs and turning them into... abominations! I don’t care if they are condemned or not, it’s cruel! Sire, please...” 

“How did you discover this enchantment?” the King asked, ignoring Smokescreen’s protests.

“It was during the course of our regular studies, Your Majesty,” Barricade replied. “We discovered a source of power that could feed off the life energy of a spark and turn it into action.”

“What is this source of power?” snapped Smokescreen.

There was a pause. Then Barricade said, “In an ancient text, we discovered cantrips that have gone unused for thousands of vorn. With them we were able to create this enchantment.”

There was a clatter from the room below, and Silverstreak shrunk further back into the shadows. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I told you that the texts –“

The King interrupted. “What is the source of power? I am very well familiar with the basics of your work, but I have never heard of a source strong enough to do anything like what you are describing.”

Another pause. Quietly, Barricade said, “We are not quite certain. The ancient texts mention that the Unmaker is the ultimate source of power for this type of energy manipulation, but –“

“Sire!” The roar of Smokescreen’s engine echoed off the rotunda‘s ceiling. “This is... This is... You cannot allow this. They are desecrating sparks for their own benefit!” 

Barricade’s honeyed tone returned to his voice. “It is for the benefit of Praxus, and all of Cybertron, that we expand our knowledge. This will allow us to be prepared when Primus returns to –“

Smokescreen made a loud exclamation of frustration. “Yes! You are supposed to be priests of Primus, but you are tapping into energies that originate with the Unmaker!” 

Silverstreak’s optics widened as he listened. He had never heard his eldest brother sound so angry before. 

“I agree.” The King’s voice was steady. “I cannot allow this. You will destroy all of your research on this subject, and I forbid you to work on this again.”

There was a slow scrape of metal on stone. “You are making a mistake, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps.” The King sounded very tired suddenly. “But... Prince Smokescreen is right. This feels wrong. You will destroy your research. Let me know when it is completed.”

Silence. Then: “Of course, Your Majesty. Your will is law.” There was a pause, and Silverstreak imagined the High Priest turning to the Prince. “Your Highness.” A moment later, the sound of pedes on stone faded into the distance.

“You should have sent a guard or two to make sure he does as you have asked, sire,” said Smokescreen.

“You are too distrustful, Smokescreen,” said the King. “He will do as he is told.”

Silverstreak slunk back into the stairwell and climbed the stairs back to his quarters. He suddenly wanted to spend some time studying astronomy with his tutor, and forget the exchange he had just heard.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Prime listened carefully to Bluestreak’s story. When the Praxian finished speaking, the Prime thought for a moment before speaking. “Mechs that can run on no fuel but only spark energy, using power from an enchantment that originates with the Unmaker.” He nodded. “It does sound very much like what you and Sunstreaker encountered near the border with Nyon.”

Bluestreak bowed his head. “Perhaps someone in Nyon discovered the same enchantment,” he said. “But...”

“You said that High Priest Barricade was the one who explained the enchantment to King Cygnus,” the Prime said. “He is in the delegation coming to visit Iacon soon, as is Prince Prowl.” He looked at Bluestreak thoughtfully. “This may present us with a valuable opportunity to discover the source of the attacks. Thank you very much for bringing this information to me, Bluestreak.”

“After seeing what those things can do... I wanted to make sure I did everything I could to help,” Bluestreak said.

The Prime nodded. “Now... How do you wish to handle the visit from the Praxians? I understand that you may not wish to see any of them, for many reasons. I will help you in any way that I can.” He gestured with his hand as he described the possibilities. “For example, I can send you away on patrol for the whole time they are here, or I can arrange a meeting with any mech in particular that you would like to speak to.”

Sitting up in surprise, Bluestreak thought for a moment. He wanted to stay as far away from the High Priest as possible. But Prowl... His hands tightened into fists as he remembered hearing Tempest’s screams as the guards dragged him away. He remembered seeing Prowl’s designation stamped on the execution order. He remembered the feel of his fist connecting with Prowl’s jaw.

He closed his optics and pulled a full, even ventilation. The memory of Hound’s true self swirled through his processor, and how the mech always looked for the good in everyone. ...How he always found a way to forgive. 

Bluestreak remembered running through the palace grounds as a sparkling, chasing after Prowl. They both shrieked with laughter as they ran.

Bluestreak remembered Prowl helping him fix his toy technohawk after Bluestreak had thrown it out of the fourth story window of the castle, thinking it would fly on its own. 

Bluestreak remembered Prowl reading to him late into the night when the younger mech had a nightmare and couldn’t get back into recharge.

While he wanted to avoid Barricade as much as possible, Bluestreak found that he did want to speak with his brother... If only to give himself closure on the last time he’d seen Prowl. 

Pulling in another vent of air, Bluestreak opened his optics and looked at the Prime. “I know what I want to do,” he said.


	12. The Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regular posting schedule!

Bluestreak’s vents itched. The mundanity dust that he’d scattered over himself had irritated his intake and optics for just a klik, but an annoying itch remained in the deep parts of his vents.

He wanted to pace, but he knew he needed to keep still. He couldn’t resist shifting slightly on his pedes, however, and the Prime’s office was still empty anyway. He felt intensely restless. While his plan had sounded simple, now that it was actually in execution he wasn’t totally sure it was going to work. It all hinged on whether they could separate Prowl from the High Priest.

Closing his optics, Bluestreak focused on his ventilations, and quietly repeated the prayer that Sunstreaker had taught him – the same one the yellow mech had recited to himself after losing himself to the battle rage a deca-cycle ago. Slowly, the rapid spin of his spark slowed and calmed.

A few kliks later he heard voices, and the sound of mechs walking down the hallway to the Prime’s office. 

“I know you’ve had a long journey to get here. We are preparing evening fuel for you, and your rooms are ready,” said Ultra Magnus’s voice. 

“Are there washracks? I would very much like to get the road dust out of my joints,” said a familiar, oily voice. Bluestreak’s optics narrowed as he recognized Barricade’s voice. 

“I would just like to discuss a few items first, and then I will have you shown to your rooms,” said the Prime.

The entourage arrived at the office. Even though he knew it was not necessary with the charm he had used, Bluestreak still pressed himself back against the far wall. First, two of the Prime’s Guard swept into the office and took positions on either side of the door. Then Optimus Prime entered, followed by Ironhide and Ultra Magnus. Two Praxian Royal Guards entered the room next, flanking a mech that Bluestreak had not seen in over eleven vorn. 

Prowl’s face looked stern and emotionless, a contrast to the look of shock and horror Bluestreak recalled on his brother’s face the last time he had seen him. However, the Prince carried himself with the same precision that Bluestreak remembered. Prowl‘s optics quickly surveyed the room as he entered it, and Bluestreak stiffened as the Prince’s gaze turned towards him... And then slipped right past him without a flicker. 

Bluestreak let himself relax slightly. The charm seemed to be working.

Following Prowl came a black mech, draped in the stole of the Praxian priesthood. High Priest Barrricade held his helm and door wings high as he entered the office on Prowl’s heels. He looked neither left nor right, but focused his red optics straight ahead on the Prime. Behind him was a noble of mixed ancestry who Bluestreak recognized as Viscount Fireblade. He remembered the northerner as being loyal to King Cygnus, almost to a fault. Two more guards marked with Temple emblems brought up the rear of the procession.

The Prime gestured at the seats in front of his desk. “Please, sit down,” he said. He waited for the three Praxian dignitaries to sit before taking his own seat behind his desk. Bluestreak smiled when he noticed that Ironhide and Ultra Magnus remained standing in their places behind the Prime, forming an imposing wall.

“I will get right to the point, as I would like this to be clear before we begin any negotiations,” the Prime said, folding his hands on his desk in front of him. “There are many Praxians in Iacon. Three of them are members of my Rangers. These mechs have come here of their own free will, for their own reasons.” His voice grew in strength until Bluestreak swore he could see the clearsteel windows vibrating with the sound. “I will not allow them to be harassed in any way, nor will I permit them to be taken from Iacon by force, regardless of how ‘pure’ you deem them.”

Barricade sniffed. “It is regrettable, of course, that some Praxians choose to leave the land of their creation. However, we must insist that any pure Praxians be returned to us. They must be kept safe, and help fulfil their duty to Primus.”

Bluestreak felt his tanks churn.

The Prime looked at the High Priest impassively. “No,” he said simply.

“No?” Barricade fanned his door wings. He leaned forward. “We must insist. Pure Praxians belong in Praxus. You do not have any claim on them. We will –“

“You do not have any claim on a citizen of Iacon. Their frames may be Praxian, but their sparks are Iaconian.” The Prime seemed to grow larger with every word he spoke. “If this is a problem, then perhaps any discussion regarding an agreement between our countries should be left for another cycle.”

“We are not here to collect wayward Praxians,” Prowl said, speaking for the first time. “We will abide by your guidelines while we are in Iacon.” He flashed a warning look at Barricade, lifting his door wings up in a display of rank. Lord Fireblade said nothing, but sat up straight, his optics flicking between Prowl and Barricade.

Barricade frowned, but lowered his own door wings in response. “Of course, Your Highness.” 

The Prime nodded, his voice returning to its usual gentle deepness. “Thank you. I am happy to have your cooperation.” He turned his helm to address Ultra Magnus. “Commander, can you please show High Priest Barricade and Lord Fireblade to their rooms? I have another item that I would like to discuss with Prince Prowl in private.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ultra Magnus, and he stepped out from behind the desk. Lord Fireblade rose and bowed to the Prime, turning to follow Ultra Magnus.

Barricade’s engine growled, and he turned to Prowl. “Your Highness! I cannot permit you to be left alone with these... These outsiders!” he exclaimed. 

“One of my guards will stay with me,” Prowl said, lifting a door wing at the Prime, who nodded in acquiescence. 

“That is an unacceptable risk for a pure Praxian, let alone a member of the royal family,” Barricade protested, lifting his door wings to put the Temple markings that decorated them on display. “I insist that one of my guards remain with you as well.”

“Are you insinuating that my own Royal Guard will be unable to defend me should one of our Iaconian **friends** ,” Prowl emphasized the word, gesturing at the Prime and Ironhide, “decide to take advantage of me?” 

Barricade paused, then tilted his helm. His voice took on the familiar ingratiating tone that Bluestreak remembered from long ago. “Then at least allow Lord Fireblade to stay with you, for propriety’s sake.”

Prowl lifted his helm, and his optics flashed dangerously. “I have no need for a chaperone, High Priest. Please, leave us.”

“We will reconvene in a groon for evening fuel,” the Prime said smoothly. 

After a moment, Barricade stood, casting a baleful look at the Prime before fixing his gaze on Prowl. “Very well. We shall see you again in a groon,” he said to Prowl, emphasizing the timeframe. Then he turned and swept out of the room, followed by everyone except Prowl, one of his Royal Guards, Ironhide, and the Prime. Bluestreak watched as the door was shut firmly behind the crowd.

Prowl bowed his helm slightly. “My apologies, Prime,” he said. “The High Priest was not enthusiastic about me going on this journey in the first place.” He gestured at the Praxian Royal Guard who had stayed behind in the room with him. “All of my guards have my complete confidence. Anything you wish to discuss may be said in front of them.” 

Ironhide stared at the Prince, a hand resting on his hip. “You brought quite the contingent with you,” he said. “Fifteen mechs! It’s like you descended with a small army.”

“Again, that was the High Priest’s doing,” Prowl said, his tone weary. “Most of the delegation consists of Temple guards.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “It would have been my preference to travel without the High Priest at all, but as soon as it was decided that I was going, he insisted on coming with us... Ostensibly, to protect the integrity of my virtue and my spark,” he said, his door wings flicking once. “You have my deepest apologies for his rudeness.”

The Prime nodded and leaned forward. “The matter that I wished to discuss with you is personal in nature, and relates to the issue of full-framed Praxians,” he said. “I mentioned that there are three Praxians amongst my Rangers. One of them is full-framed.”

Bluestreak tensed, watching Prowl intently.

Prowl nodded in understanding. “You have my promise that I have absolutely no intention of dragging any Praxians back with us. That is not an activity that I condone,” he said firmly. “I am here solely to discuss matters of border security and mutual aid.”

“Good,” the Prime said, sitting back. “The full-framed Praxian expressed a desire to speak with you.”

Spreading his door wings wide, Prowl said, “I would be happy to speak to any Praxian who wishes to do so.” He dipped his wings slightly. “I understand that whatever they have to say may not be pleasant... But I also realize that if their lives in Praxus had been agreeable, they would not have felt the need to leave in the first place.”

Taking a full vent of air in through his vents, Bluestreak said, “I am here.” The words dispelled the charm on him, rendering him able to be noticed.

The Royal Guard saw him first, and dropped into a ready pose. A small part of Bluestreak’s processor noticed this and approved; Prowl’s personal guards had always been some of the best. The rest of Bluestreak’s attention was on his brother.

Prowl glanced towards Bluestreak when he spoke, and a look of confusion flitted across his face as he suddenly noticed another mech in the room. He focused on Bluestreak, and tilted his helm. “Good day, citizen,” he said, lowering his door wings in greeting. 

Bluestreak walked a few paces towards his brother and stopped. “Hello, Prowl,” he said quietly. He firmly held his door wings still so as not to betray the anger that suddenly flared within him at seeing his brother.

As Bluestreak spoke, Prowl’s optics widened in surprise, then in sudden recognition. He lurched to his pedes and took a step towards Bluestreak, then another. “Silverstreak?” he asked, his vocalizer wavering slightly. “Is that you?”

“It’s Bluestreak now,” the grey and red mech replied, holding his helm and door wings high.

Prowl’s optics roved over Bluestreak’s frame, taking in his grey and red paint, then came to rest for a moment on the Ranger emblems painted on his shoulder armor. He stood still for a moment, then quietly said, “I am... very glad that you still function.” Prowl’s door wings quivered, then fell slightly as he spoke.

In that instant, with the small movement of Prowl’s door wings and the almost imperceptible expression that flashed across his face, Bluestreak understood that Prowl had given up on ever seeing his younger brother again. While Bluestreak had been hiding and looking over his shoulder, Prowl had eventually given up, and mourned.

His spark twisted slightly at the revelation of Prowl’s pain.

Hardening himself for what he had to say to his brother, Bluestreak squared his shoulders and turned to the Prime and Ironhide. “May we use your terrace? I... I have some things I would like to discuss with the Prince.”

The Prime nodded, and Bluestreak gestured for Prowl to follow him onto the terrace. 

Bluestreak walked to the edge of the terrace, overlooking the gardens below. Prowl followed to the terrace’s railing, but stayed a few paces to Bluestreak’s side. Prowl’s Royal Guard also followed them onto the terrace, but stayed near the door, a respectful distance away from the two mechs.

Prowl looked at Bluestreak again, his door wings betraying the emotions he was feeling: relief, astonishment, and spark ache. “You are looking well,” he said finally.

“As are you,” Bluestreak replied. He meant it: Prowl had matured since Bluestreak had seen him last, and carried himself with a genuine confidence that Bluestreak was sure had only been a mask before. 

Gesturing at Bluestreak’s frame, Prowl said, “Your new colours suit you.” He smiled and added, “No one would mistake you for Smokescreen now.”

That surprised a laugh out of Bluestreak, remembering how often mechs had commented that he looked like a miniature version of his eldest brother, and how much that had irritated him in his youth. “I suppose not,” he said. “Maybe I should have gotten a repaint vorn ago.”

Prowl’s next words silenced Bluestreak’s laughter. “They’re Tempest’s colours, aren’t they?” he asked quietly.

Bluestreak turned away from Prowl and looked down at the gardens. His hands tightened on the railing. “Yes. They are.”

“Silver – ah, Bluestreak... I swear to Primus I didn’t know,” Prowl said. Bluestreak looked back at Prowl. The white and black mech was resting one hand on the railing while his other was raised as if to touch Bluestreak’s shoulder. At Bluestreak’s look, he made a fist with his hand and lowered it to his side again. “I didn’t know the execution order was for Tempest. Names were purposefully kept off of the orders to prevent any suggestion of favouritism.” 

“What would you have done if you had known?” When Prowl did not answer, Bluestreak whirled to face his brother. “What would you have done?” Bluestreak demanded again, his door wings rising in anger. “Spirited him away? Smuggled him out of Praxus? Banished him?” 

“I agree that any solution would not have been ideal,” Prowl said. “But I would have found a way to remove him from danger.”

Bluestreak shook his helm, fighting off the wave of sadness he felt. “I would have followed him. I would still have left Praxus.” He clenched his fists at his side. “No one deserves to die simply for who they love, and I didn’t want to live someplace where that was a reality for so many mechs.”

“I know.” Prowl exvented quietly, and lowered his door wings. “I know how you felt about having a mate chosen for you.”

“That wasn’t the only reason I left, and you know it,” Bluestreak snapped. “Killing the mech I loved...” His vocalizer spat static for a moment before he recovered. “Executing Tempest was just the last strut to break. No matter how hard I worked for the less fortunate, in the fuel halls, in the parts dens, in the labour camps... Every time I felt we’d taken a step forward, the temple priests shoved us back again.” Folding his arms across his front bumper, Bluestreak said, “So long as the priests have our sire’s audial, Praxus will never change direction.”

“We’re working to change things, Silv – Bluestreak.” Prowl’s voice had an earnestness that it had lacked just a moment before. The Prince took a small step towards his younger brother. “Smokescreen wants to change things, and so do I. You know that, and our goals haven’t changed. The citizens of Praxus deserve better. And...” Prowl paused, his voice dropping slightly. “Our sire will not function forever.” 

Drumming his digits against the railing, Bluestreak thought for a moment. He knew Smokescreen often clashed with their sire, and all three brothers had often discussed how to solve the problems they saw all around them, outside of the walls of the castle. Their discussions always circled back to the temple priests. “How can Smokescreen change anything unless he has the blessing of the priests?” Bluestreak asked quietly.

“We have some evidence that the High Priest may have played a role in the attacks that have been coming out of Nyon,” Prowl replied, just as softly. “If we can prove it, we will be able to remove the High Priest and diminish the temple’s role in governing, thus decapitating the monster that our sire and grandsire have allowed to grow in Praxus.” 

Suddenly remembering the conversation he’d relayed to the Prime, Bluestreak turned to his brother and put a hand on his upper arm. “Prowl,” he said urgently. “I know what you’re talking about... I overheard Barricade’s conversation with Smokescreen and our sire.” He briefly recounted the story, and watched as Prowl nodded.

“Yes, but there’s so little proof that the enchantment is tied to the attacks,” Prowl said.

“Not anymore,” Bluestreak said. “I’ve seen the monsters that have been coming out of Nyon, and we have proof that they are using an enchantment driven by the Unmaker’s power.”

As Bluestreak explained his experiences and Perceptor’s enchantment detector, Prowl’s optics widened. The Prince thought for a moment, pacing back and forth along the railing. His door wings flicked as he faced Bluestreak again. “This is excellent information, but it still does not completely lay the blame at Barricade’s pedes,” Prowl said. “We either need more proof, or we need him to confess.”

Bluestreak frowned. Prowl was right. “Maybe we could get him to submit to a truth charm or something,” he suggested.

Prowl shook his helm. “Smokescreen and I already considered that,” he said. “Barricade would never willingly agree to that. And forcing him would be out of the question, at least under current Praxian law.”

“Smokescreen can change the law once he is King,” Bluestreak suggested. As soon as the words left his lips, though, his spark clenched. Smokescreen could only become King once their sire deactivated... And who knew how long it would be before that happened. Bluestreak’s door wings fell.

With a slow vent of air, Prowl stepped close to Bluestreak and put an arm around his shoulders. “The three of us think too much alike,” Prowl said, his lips curling in a sad smile. “Smokescreen and I have thought these very same things... And come to the same conclusions as you have. We need some way to show the Court the harm that the priests have wrought.”

Leaning heavily on the railing, Bluestreak lowered his helm. “I was so angry with you, Prowl,” he said quietly. “I believed you when you said you didn’t know, but… I had to be mad at someone.” 

“I know. And I am sorry,” Prowl said. “I know how much you loved him.” He left his arm around Bluestreak’s shoulders. “I wish things could have gone differently, for all of us.”

Bluestreak looked back up at his brother, his door wings drooping. “I’m still angry, but... I also missed you and Smokey. A lot.” 

A strange sound came from Prowl’s engine, and suddenly Bluestreak found himself wrapped in his brother’s arms. “I’m just glad you still function,” Prowl said, his voice sounding choked. “After so long with no sign of you, we thought...”

With a laugh, Bluestreak rested his chevron against Prowl’s. “I guess I’m better at keeping a low profile than I thought I was,” he said.

Prowl returned the laugh. “Even if we don’t work out a treaty with Iacon, seeing you has made this entire trip worthwhile.” 

The sound of a pede on stone caused them both to turn. The Prime was standing in the doorway, next to the Royal Guard, and far enough away that he could not have overheard their conversation. “Pardon me,” he said. “But Prince Prowl should begin making his way to the evening fuel we have arranged, or else the High Priest may begin to think we’ve absconded with his Prince.”

Nodding, Bluestreak said, “Yes, Prime.” He turned to Prowl and patted him on the arm. “Go on. We can catch up a bit more later.”

* * *

Later that evening, Bluestreak spent much of the night in Prowl’s guest room as the brothers caught each other up on things they had missed in the eleven vorn they’d been apart. 

Praxus had changed – for the worse, if that could be believed. “So many years of being selective about who could enter our borders as a trader has left us on our back pede. The Tiann energon mine failed three vorn ago, and they’ve had to reduce rations again,” Prowl said. 

“Rationing?” Bluestreak exclaimed. “But the poorest were already operating on the lowest levels of fuel possible. How could they be rationed even lower?”

Prowl grimaced. “By limiting the hours that the poor can leave their residences. If they aren’t out working, they aren’t burning fuel.” He looked at Bluestreak’s horrified expression with sympathy in his optics. “I know this must be hard to hear for you. I remember how hard you worked to improve the lives of the lower classes.” 

Bluestreak had a sudden flash of memory of taking a wrong turn in the Praxian capital while heading back to the castle, and ending up in one of the slums. The squalor and utter poverty he saw disturbed him to his core. But when he spoke to his sire about it, the King had simply shrugged and suggested that anyone living in such a state simply did not work hard enough, or had done something to earn Primus’s disfavour. So Bluestreak decided he would do something about it. 

Bluestreak laughed quietly. “Sire hated my work in the fuel halls,” he said. He paused. “He probably hated it more after he found out that’s where I met Tempest.”

Prowl nodded. “He did.” The Prince frowned. “After you left... He tried to order them closed. Smokescreen talked him out of it.” He shook his helm. “Thank goodness he did. Otherwise the poorest would have nowhere to turn, now.”

Prowl had been expertly sidestepping the priests’ attempts to berth him with the mate they had chosen for him, a lesser noble designated Solder. “It turns out that neither of us is particularly interested in having a sparkling right now,” Prowl said, smirking. “So we’ve collaborated to ensure that our schedules are incompatible. And these recent incursions from Nyon mean I’m much more busy than usual, so at least we have plausible deniability on our side.”

Remembering the mech that the priests had selected for him, Bluestreak asked, “How is Greenbough? He hasn’t had any trouble, has he?” Greenbough was a nice enough mech, but neither of them was interested in the other romantically at all. Then when Bluestreak met Tempest when he was volunteering at one of the fuel halls, Bluestreak realized that there was much more to love than just ‘compatibility.’

“Greenbough is doing well,” Prowl replied. “After you disappeared they found another match for him; they seem to have hit it off. His mate had a sparkling a vorn after they were bonded. I see him occasionally when the full court meets, and he seems very happy now.”

Bluestreak exvented in relief, his door wings bobbing slightly. “I’m glad. He’s a good mech; I’m happy that my running off didn’t reflect badly on him.” 

Prowl laughed. “Maybe someday you’ll get to see his sparkling. He has his sire’s optics.”

Looking down at his hands, Bluestreak said, “I don’t think that will happen unless things change drastically in Praxus.” His door wings shivered and drooped slightly. “I can’t return. You know what they do to the purebreds who escape.”

A rumble came from Prowl’s engine, and Bluestreak glanced up at him. “You are the creation of the King,” he growled. “They wouldn’t dare subject you to –“

“I don’t think I want to put that to the test,” Bluestreak interrupted. He shivered, thinking of the tales he had been told. Perhaps some of those stories were embellished to stop full-framed Praxians from even thinking about running, but he really didn’t want to find out. It was bad enough being told to bond your spark to a stranger’s, but being forced... He looked back up at this brother. “Besides, I belong with the Rangers now,” he said. “I have good life here. It may not be the one that was ordained for me by the priests, but it’s the one that I have chosen for myself.” 

Prowl had a long series of meetings the next morning, so Bluestreak eventually had to bid him goodnight. “Hound and I are being sent on patrol for three or four cycles tomorrow,” Bluestreak said. “I’m not sure if you’ll still be in Iacon by the time we get back.”

“I wish I could meet this Hound of yours,” Prowl said, a wistful smile on his lips. “He sounds like a wonderful match for you. I’m glad he’s made you so happy.”

“Maybe you’ll get to meet him some day,” Bluestreak said, and wrapped his brother in a hug. “Take care of yourself,” he whispered. “Tell Smokey that I still function, and that I think about him often.”

Prowl nodded. “I will do that,” he said, and lifted a hand in farewell as Bluestreak slipped out of his room.

Walking across the courtyard to the Ranger barracks, Bluestreak looked up at the walls of the citadel, trying to remember which room Prowl was in. 

After speaking with his brother, the fierce anger that he had felt when he first saw Prowl had faded, leaving only the same dull sadness at Tempest’s passing that he had lived with for eleven vorn.

Bluestreak remembered their confrontation just before Bluestreak had left Praxus, and he realized he still hadn’t apologized to Prowl for dislocating his jaw. 

He gave his door wings a shrug as he walked. Prowl might not have known he was signing the order for Tempest, but he knew he was approving of putting **someone** to death simply for interfacing with another mech who happened to have a chevron and door wings. 

Bluestreak twisted his mouth into a sad smile. The dislocated jaw was still fully deserved.

Glancing back up at the wall of the citadel, Bluestreak saw the quick flash of golden optics in one of the windows. He turned his helm to look more carefully, but the silhouette pulled back from the window before he could register it.

Pausing, Bluestreak looked up at the window for a moment to see if the mech would return. When he did not, Bluestreak resettled his armor and quickly marched the rest of the way to the barracks.

He would be glad to be gone from Iacon City for the rest of the time the Praxian delegation would be in the city.

* * *

After staying up so late the night before, Bluestreak was muzzy for their first day of patrol. Fortunately, he and Hound were being sent to patrol through an area near the eastern border of Iacon, away from any of the trouble along the border with Nyon. Bluestreak was able to simply follow Hound as they drove, and was even able to get a short period of recharge when they stopped to fuel mid-day.

Bluestreak told Hound about meeting his brother, and how Prowl and Smokescreen were trying to change things within Praxus. “But don’t worry,” Bluestreak said after they checked in at a small town near the border and continued on their way north. “I have no intention of returning. Not now.”

“I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did,” Hound said. The green four-by-four slowed as they took a sharp turn in the mountain road. “I mean, you must have responsibilities and... stuff there."

“My responsibilities are now with the Rangers,” Bluestreak said firmly.

Hound rocked on his wheels slightly. “Call me selfish, then, but... good!” he exclaimed with a laugh.

Since Bluestreak was so low on energy, Hound offered to take the first watch that night. When he woke Bluestreak out of recharge, though, Hound looked troubled. “I swear I smelled something earlier, but when I went to check it out I didn’t find anything,” he said. 

“Mech or animal?” Bluestreak asked, stretching his arms and door wings as he stood up from his mat.

Hound shook his helm. “I don’t know. It was so brief I might have just imagined it.” The green mech put his hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder before he settled down on his own mat. “Still… Keep your optics open, ok? And wake me if you hear anything.” 

“Absolutely,” Bluestreak said, fanning his door wings. “I hope none of those... things from Nyon have made it this far into Iacon.”

After Hound’s systems idled down into recharge, Bluestreak stood and paced around the perimeter of their camp. He increased the sensitivity of his door wing’s sensors to their highest level, and peered into the darkness.

He sensed a turbofox in the distance, and heard a sharp squeal as it caught something, probably a glitchmouse. Bluestreak wished it had been closer; he still hadn’t seen one since the patrol with Blurr an orbital cycle ago. He sensed other small mechanimals, going about their business in the mountainous terrain, but nothing large. Certainly nothing large enough to be a full mech, and no sign or signal of anything like what he and Sunstreaker had run into on the western border.

Bluestreak finished his circuit of the camp’s perimeter and sat down again near the generator. He looked over at Hound’s still form and smiled. Someday, he would like to take Hound to see the limestone walls of the Praxian capital, with its delicate spires and soaring bridges. But even if his brothers succeeded in making the changes they wanted – the changes Praxus needed – Bluestreak knew he wouldn’t consider it home ever again. His home was now in Iacon.

His door wings twitched slightly at a small sound that he heard behind him. Before he had time to turn around, a hand shoved a mesh cloth against his air vents, and another jammed something against his throat. 

“Silence and darkness now,” a voice said quietly. Bluestreak’s optics and vocalizer powered off instantly, and in his surprise his vents sucked in the powder from the mesh held against them. 

Bluestreak’s last thought as his processor slipped offline was of Hound. _Don’t you hurt him! Don’t you dare..._


	13. Taken

At first, Bluestreak was simply amazed at the number of error messages he had to dismiss or acknowledge before his systems would finalize his boot up sequence.

As parts of him came back online, Bluestreak realized how many other parts of him were disabled or simply not responding. Frame control was offline, as were his visual sensors and vocalizer. Gyros were still operational, and Bluestreak could sense that he was rolling. 

Rolling. That took a bit more to suss out, but he finally put enough pieces of sensor data together to figure out that he was in his alt mode and hooked to a tow bar. He was being pulled along a bumpy road, bumpy enough that it didn’t feel paved. Perhaps it was a trail and not a proper road? 

Sound. He listened for a moment, and only heard the rumble of engines and the crunch of tires over gravel. There were at least two, maybe three engines. One was deeper than the others; perhaps that larger engine belonged to whoever was pulling him.

Memory. What had happened? He remembered being on patrol with Hound. Which way had they gone? North? Or East? Did they run into some more of those cursed mechs? No, that was unlikely. The cursed mechs would have dismembered them, not towed them off. 

Right. They had gone east, into the mountains. Away from Nyon. Away from Prowl. Hound had been on watch, and Bluestreak had taken over, and someone had come into their camp, and…

Hound. Where was Hound?

Bluestreak tried applying his brakes, but he had no frame control at all. He couldn’t even rock on his wheels, and his transformation cog felt tight and wasn’t responding, not even to simple diagnostic requests. He was simply rolling blind, being pulled by some unknown mech or mechs. 

This sucked slag.

“I think he’s booting up,” said a voice with a distinct Praxian accent. “Right on schedule... They said the powder would last eight groons.”

“I’ll give him another dose,” said another voice. Bluestreak felt himself roll to a stop and heard a transformation sequence.

A moment later, he felt a mesh cloth shoved into his air intake under his radiator. Unable to move, he felt what little sensor data he had start to fade as his systems began to go offline again.

“All right, that’s enough,” said the first voice. “He’s shutting down again. If we leave the cloth in there for too long he’ll overheat. We don’t want him to be damaged.”

Silence reclaimed Bluestreak as his sensors went dark.

* * *

When Bluestreak came back online again, it was to the sound of arguing.

“Why aren’t we taking the main road? The ruts on this Primus-forsaken torbuk trail are destroying my suspension.”

“Because, you glitch, if we were on the main road everyone would see us, and tell them where we went. Besides, this trail is the most direct way out of the country.”

“If we were on the main road, we’d be in Tarn by now.”

“Will you two please cease your bickering? We’re following this trail until we get to Tarn.”

They weren’t moving. Bluestreak’s chronometer was offline. He remembered them saying that whatever they were using to keep him offline lasted eight groons, so that meant at least sixteen groons had gone by since he was taken. It was probably mid-afternoon the cycle after the evening he was attacked.

Bluestreak wondered again where Hound was, and whether they had damaged him. _Please, please don’t let him be hurt._

“Hey, I think he’s about due for another dose… I think I just heard his engine turn over.”

He felt a pede connect with his undercarriage. His processor tried to flinch but he was still unable to move. “Hey, princeling! You coming back online?”

Bluestreak heard a scuffle. “Stop that! What is wrong with you, you glitched fool?”

“Your authority here is limited, sir,” the voice sneered. “Besides, he’s just going to get locked up when we get back anyway, like they do with all the other runaways.”

“That’s still no reason to kick him.” Bluestreak was finally able to tell that there were three distinct voices, and the one defending him had an accent of someone from the northern area of Praxus. He mentally gritted his dentae as he realized it was probably Lord Fireblade. “And I don’t care if you answer to the High Priest; you are under my command until we get back to Praxus. You are not to abuse the Prince, even if he is offline, or the King will hear about your treatment of his son. Do I make myself clear?”

There were muffled grunts of agreement, then the mesh cloth was stuffed into his air intake again. “Your Highness... If you can hear me, I am so sorry about this,” Fireblade said quietly. “But I made a promise.”

Everything went silent and still once more.

* * *

The third time Bluestreak came back online, he was immediately assaulted by error messages and warnings. 

He was rolling fast. As he bounced through a deep rut, Bluestreak realized he was moving too fast for the surface he was being towed over.

“Are you sure about what you saw?”

“I’m telling you, it was an aerial. He was pretty high up, so maybe he didn’t spot us, but –“

“Keep moving. We need to get under shelter until dark.”

Bluestreak hit another rut, and he felt a shock of pain through his suspension. He reviewed the damage reports that had presented themselves as he was booting up, and realized that they must have been traveling at speed over rough terrain for some time.

“We must be over the border by now. Maybe it wasn’t a Ranger.”

Fireblade’s voice snarled in reply. “Do you really want to take that risk? Keep moving!” 

Rattling over another rough section of the trail, Bluestreak almost missed the rising roar of an engine above them. An amplified voice said, “Stop immediately. In the name of the Prime, you are under arrest for assault on an Iaconian Ranger. Transform and lay face-down on the ground.” 

“There’s only the one! Keep moving!” Bluestreak felt their pace increase to an even more alarming speed. 

Then, several things seemed to happen at once.

Bluestreak heard more engines coming up behind them. His left tire hit something sharp and blew out. He skidded to the side, and he heard a panicked shout from just in front of him. Then he felt his back tires slip off the trail into nothing, and his gyros spun as he tipped over.

He heard someone transform as he rolled from his tires onto his roof, and he suddenly felt himself sliding uncontrollably. For a moment all he could hear was the scrape of rock against his own metal. Pain seared through his sensor net as almost every panel on his frame was scratched or dented.

When he came to a rest, he heard shouting from somewhere above him. “Hands up! Down on the ground!” 

“We are in Tarn! You have no authority here,” said Lord Fireblade.

“You have one of our Rangers. That gives us all the authority we need,” said Silverbolt’s voice.

Then he heard Hound’s voice, insistent and angry. “Where is he? What did you do with Blue?”

Bluestreak felt a wash of relief when he heard his lover’s voice. 

“Hound! I see him! Bolt, Knock Out, cover those frag helms for us!” A rattle of pebbles showered down on Bluestreak, and suddenly he felt a warm hand resting on his undercarriage. Sideswipe’s voice said, “Are you with us, Bluestreak?”

Bluestreak tried to reply, but whatever was keeping him silent was still in place. If he could have, Bluestreak would have sworn every invective he could think of. He was still blind, still unable to move, still unable to transform, and still unable to speak. He couldn’t even rev his engine or spin his tires to indicate that he’d heard Sideswipe. 

And everything hurt.

There was another shower of pebbles, and a second hand came to rest on his chassis. “Oh, Blue,” Hound murmured. “Please be ok.”

“Let’s get him back up top, and then we can see what the damage is,” Sideswipe said. “Hook yourself up to the tow bar so he doesn’t roll when I flip him back over…”

It took several kliks, but Bluestreak was finally flipped upright and dragged back up to the trail. His blown tire sang with agony, and every part of him ached.

“I think he’s online, but he’s not responding,” Sideswipe muttered. He rubbed a hand across Bluestreak’s hood. “Hey, Bluestreak?”

Bluestreak’s spark twisted in frustration at his inability to respond.

“Let me take a look,” said Knock Out. Bluestreak felt firm hands deftly sliding over his chassis and dipping into his circuitry. “Well, well, look at that,” Knock Out purred. “They’ve got an inhibitor claw on him. Give me just a klik.” There was a snap, and Bluestreak felt the pressure on his transformation cog lessen slightly. “All right,” said Knock Out. “I’m going to pull off the claw, so stand back… If he’s been trying to activate his t-cog, it’s going to spin right up as soon as the claw is off.”

Suddenly the pressure was removed, and Bluestreak felt himself twist through his transformation sequence. It felt wonderful, like stretching all of his struts at once after being confined in a small space. But he was still blind and mute, and his frame control was still gone. As his transformation completed, he felt himself grabbed by several hands before he could fall to the ground.

“He’s still offline? Or his optics are, anyway. C’mon, Bluestreak, snap out of it,” Sideswipe said as they lowered him gently to the ground.

“What did you do to him?” Hound’s roar startled Bluestreak. His usually mild voice was raw with emotion. It must have startled the other Rangers, too, since there was a sudden silence. Pedes crunched on gravel, and Hound’s voice thundered out again. “Tell us what you did! If you damaged him...”

“The Prince is unharmed! Believe me!” Fireblade pleaded. “Look on his throat. There’s a copper disk, an enchanted token, held on with sealant. Remove the token and he’ll regain his functions.”

“Prince?” Bluestreak heard Knock Out ask quietly.

His spark quivered as it spun.

Bluestreak’s helm was tipped back with gentle hands, and he felt a pinch on his throat cords. Suddenly, most of the error messages that were cluttering up his log vanished, and his optics flickered back online.

Sideswipe and Knock Out peered down at him with concerned optics. There was a scuffle of pedes on gravel, and Hound’s face appeared closer, filling his vision. “Blue?” the green mech asked quietly, putting a hand on the side of his helm. “Talk to me.”

At first Bluestreak’s vocalizer only produced static, but he reset it and tried again. “I guess I’m slag at being a lookout,” he said.

With a sob, Hound grabbed him around the shoulders and hugged him tight to his chest.

* * *

After a brief discussion, Silverbolt left to find backup to help bring the prisoners back, as well as someone who could carry Bluestreak back to Iacon City. With his blown tire, Bluestreak wasn’t able to drive anywhere. The four Rangers stayed behind with the Praxians.

When Bluestreak had finally been able to sit up, he turned to look at the Praxians. They had been bound with wire, and knelt on the ground. Two were temple guards who glared at him with looks of pure disdain.

Lord Fireblade had met Bluestreak’s optics for a moment before letting his gaze fall to the ground in front of him.

“What happened after they took me? Did they hurt you?” Bluestreak asked Hound. “They snuck up on me, just appeared out of nowhere. I’m guessing they used a stealth enchantment of some kind.”

The green mech paused in his inspection of Bluestreak’s injuries and shrugged. “They didn’t touch me,” he said. “I came out of recharge around daybreak, and you were gone. Just – poof.” He made a bursting gesture with his digits. “I followed your trail for a bit until I realized there was no way I could catch up, so I made tracks back to Iacon City for help.” He gently touched the temporary patch that Knock Out had applied to Bluestreak’s tire. “Since I knew the general direction they were heading, we got Silverbolt and Air Raid to do aerial searches, while we followed on the ground. Silverbolt spotted these guys just as they were crossing into Tarn.” 

“Lucky you were close, then,” Bluestreak said.

“I felt... I felt sick that someone had taken you. I would have done anything to get you back.” Hound wrapped his arm around Bluestreak and pressed his lips to the Praxian’s audial. “And every free Ranger is out looking for you,” he said. “The Prime was serious when he said that he would defend you.”

Bluestreak leaned on Hound for a moment and watched Sideswipe and Knock Out check the Praxians’ bindings. “They’re going to talk,” he whispered. “Everyone’s going to know.” 

Hound brushed his lips over the top of Bluestreak’s helm. “If anyone gives you grief, I’ll kick their aft personally,” he whispered back. Surprised at the vehemence in Hound’s tone, Bluestreak looked up. Hound smiled down at him. “But your friends are your friends, regardless of who you used to be.”

With a glance at Knock Out, Bluestreak exvented. “I hope so.” He put his hands on the ground. “Help me up, please.”

“You sure you’re ok to stand up?” Hound asked solicitously as Bluestreak struggled to his pedes. “Maybe you should wait until help gets here.”

“I just want to talk to them for a klik,” Bluestreak muttered, nodding at his former captors. He stood still for a moment, letting his gyros settle, before walking towards them. Hound hovered behind him, ready to catch him if he stumbled.

One of the temple guards sneered at him. “That’s disgusting,” the guard said, jerking his helm towards Hound. “You were made in the image of Primus! Your spark should be kept for only another pure Praxian, not some outsider.”

“But we’d heard that about you,” the other guard said. “Giving of yourself shamelessly. We know that’s not the only impure frame you’ve allowed to interface with yours.”

“Stop your prattle!” Lord Fireblade barked. He glared at the temple guards. “The King will hear of how you have treated his son.”

“If the King is a true believer, he will agree with us,” the first guard growled. “No pure Praxian, royal or not, should allow themselves to be defiled in that way.”

Knock Out cuffed the guard on the back of the helm. “If you can’t be quiet on your own, I’m certain we can find a way to make you quiet,” he said. 

“Can you give me a minute with Lord Fireblade?” Bluestreak asked Knock Out and Sideswipe.

Sideswipe just nodded, but Knock Out grinned at Bluestreak. “Sure.” Knock Out gave the guard one last whack on his helm before striding off. “They’re all yours, Your Highness.” He sketched a bow to Bluestreak before walking away.

Bluestreak looked at Knock Out for a moment. He recalled the Velocitronian’s offhand remark about nobles. How long ago had that been? Three orbital cycles ago?

Hound frowned and glanced at Bluestreak. Then he followed Knock Out as he walked a short distance away, speaking to him in a low voice.

Bluestreak shook his helm and turned back to Fireblade. One problem at a time.

Kneeling before Fireblade, Bluestreak thought for a moment before speaking. “Thank you for not hurting Hound,” he said, tipping his door wings down slightly to show his sincerity. 

“I did my best to make sure that neither one of you was hurt, Your Highness,” Fireblade said, keeping his optics on the ground. “I am truly sorry that you were injured.”

Bluestreak lifted his door wings again at the honorific. “You know who I am.” He paused, thinking for another moment, then added, “You saw me from the window in the citadel. You recognized me.”

Lord Fireblade lifted his helm and looked at Bluestreak. A small smile crossed his lips. “I watched you grow up in the court, and watched you grow from a sparkling into a fine young mech,” he said. “When I looked out of my window in Iacon, I was very surprised to see a pure Praxian with Ranger emblems on his armor. When you turned towards the building, I realized who you were.” His optics glanced down Bluestreak’s frame before returning to his face. “Even with your repaint, the family resemblance is remarkable. You’re the spitting image of your sire.”

“You knew they’d lock me up when we got back to Praxus, like they do to all the runaways,” Bluestreak said. He frowned at Fireblade’s expression of confusion. “They would force me to bond to a mech I hardly knew. They’d bind us spark to spark until we merged, and then bonded.” He worked his intake as his tanks churned, and his voice sunk into a whisper as he spoke to keep the static from garbling his words. “How could you do that to someone? To me?” 

“They... They wouldn’t do that!” Fireblade exclaimed. He shook his helm. “Not to you.”

“It’s what they do to purebreds who run. What makes you think they wouldn’t do that to me?”

Fireblade’s optics widened. He glanced at the temple guards, who glared back. “You’re the son of the King. They wouldn’t...”

“You don’t know that,” Bluestreak said. “A noble has never run before. The full-framed nobles... They’ve always submitted. They’ve always given in.”

Bluestreak glanced at the temple guards. One of them was smirking. “The rest of the nobles know their duty,” the guard said with confidence. “It’s a shame you don’t.”

Frowning, Fireblade looked away, his optics troubled. “I promised your sire,” he said. He closed his optics and bowed his helm. “He made me promise that if I saw you on this journey, I’d send you back to him. I know he wouldn’t let them...” He glanced at the guards again, then looked back up at Bluestreak. “He still misses you.”

Bluestreak lifted his door wings high and stood up. “The King and the policies he defends are the main reason I left in the first place,” he said. He raised his voice. “I assume that Barricade authorized you to take two of his guards to return me to Praxus?” he asked.

Lord Fireblade nodded, then returned his gaze to the ground in front of him. “Yes, he did. He said it was our duty to Praxus and to Primus to see you returned.”

“Good enough for me,” Sideswipe said, walking towards the prisoners. He grinned at Bluestreak as the Praxian got to his pedes. “We’ll relay that to Ironhide when we get back to Iacon City. He was ready to arrest Barricade as soon as we heard you were taken, but the Prime wanted more proof that he was involved.” He nodded at Fireblade and added, “Hopefully he thinks that’s enough.”

Bluestreak nodded and walked towards his next problem. Knock Out was still standing next to Hound, frowning. “Bluestreak, listen,” Knock Out began.

Bluestreak held up his hand. “Before you say anything: yes. I’m a prince. A noble. I’ve done my best in my existence to not act as spoiled as everyone assumes I am. But... If you still see me that way simply because of how I was created...”

Knock Out held up both of his hands in a placating gesture. “I assume I said something at some point to you about nobles?” He thought for a moment. “Yes, I probably did. Look...” He stepped forward one pace, holding his hand out to Bluestreak. “Whatever I said, it was directed at the nobles I’ve had run-ins with, not you,” he said. “I don’t care about your heritage. You’ve proven to be a good Ranger, and a friend.” He smiled and shook his helm. “That’s good enough for me, Your Highness,” he added with a grin, making another little bow.

After a pause, Bluestreak nodded. “Thank you,” he said. He looked at both Knock Out and Sideswipe. “And please... I’m just Bluestreak now.” He looked back at the Praxians kneeling on the trail. “I’m no one special.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a little PSA to add here...
> 
> Sometime during the night after I posted Chapter 12, my computer had Serious Issues. When I woke in the morning, it looked like my hard drive had failed, taking my working copy of this story with it.
> 
> I write ahead (for continuity and editing purposes) so I had just started chapter 17. That would have been about 15,000 words of writing that would have been lost. If I hadn't been so diligent about doing backups of my work, I don't know that I would have been able to recover my mojo to rewrite all of that. And you definitely wouldn't have this chapter today!
> 
> So - always remember to back your stuff up! It'll save you heartache and pain.


	14. Interrogation

“This is an outrage!” Barricade pressed himself against the bars of the cell, snarling out at the mechs on the other side. “Let me go immediately!”

Bluestreak took in the scene as he entered the dungeon behind Prowl and the Prime. Ironhide and Ultra Magnus stood in front of Barricade’s cell. 

Ironhide grinned at the High Priest dangerously. “Nope. Don’t think so,” Ironhide said. 

The High Priest caught sight of Prowl. “Your Highness! You must insist that they release me!”

Prowl folded his arms across his bumper. “I will do no such thing,” he said. As Barricade gaped at him, he added, “You permitted your guards to be used to abduct an Iaconian citizen after I expressly promised the Prime that we would not do so.” 

His optics flashing, Barricade pointed at Bluestreak. “He is a pure Praxian, not to mention a member of the royal family! Your own brother!” Barricade’s spread his door wings wide. “By law, he must be returned so he can be kept safe and –“

“I don’t care if he’s Primus himself! I promised the Prime that we would not take any Iaconian citizen!” Prowl exclaimed, his engine growling. “The Temple may have a mandate to retrieve pure Praxians so that you may use their frames for your own **purposes** ,” he said, spitting the word, “but the crown dictates international agreements. Your actions may have damaged our attempts to set up an agreement with Iacon.” 

Bluestreak schooled his expression as he glanced at his brother in surprise. Prowl had certainly grown into his wings in the time that Bluestreak had been away. Bluestreak could not remember his brother using such a commanding tone with anyone, let alone the High Priest.

“Fortunately for you, we are a fair-minded people,” the Prime said. Barricade turned to look at the Prime as he continued. “You will be placed on trial. We have statements from Lord Fireblade and two of your own temple priests that indicate you sanctioned the abduction of Ranger Bluestreak. You will likely receive a sentence of only ten vorn in prison.”

Barricade stared at Prowl in disbelief. “Are you just going to let them keep me here?”

Spreading his door wings to their fullest width, Prowl stepped right up to the bars of the cell and snarled. “I should leave you to rust here until the end of your existence.” He glanced up at the Prime and flicked his door wings. “However, there are other pressing matters that we require information on. Cooperate and I will ask the Prime to see that your sentence is reduced.”

Narrowing his optics, Barricade said, “What are you talking about?”

“The attacks that have been coming out of Nyon,” Ironhide said. “I don’t suppose you know anything about what’s going on, do you?”

“Only that they’re happening,” said Barricade haughtily. “And that we were sent on this fool’s errand to seek assistance from countries who are not as favoured by Primus as Praxus.”

“Being ‘favoured by Primus’ has not prevented Praxus from being affected by these attacks,” Prowl said. “Need I remind you of the massacre in the villages near the border?” Bluestreak’s door wings twitched; so Praxus had not been unaffected by the attacks, after all.

Lifting his helm, Barricade met Prowl’s gaze. “The losses were unfortunate. But if those who were deactivated were true believers, they are with Primus now,” he said. “And with the Temple’s guidance, Praxus will survive the coming conflagration without the help of outsiders. The ancient texts say, ‘Though dented and broken, the true believers will rise above evil.’”

“They also say, ‘Beware the glossa that speaks half-truths to seek power for its own gain,’” the Prime said, his tone deep and resonating.

Barricade gave the Prime a look of surprise, but recovered quickly. “Anyone can quote scripture and bend it to their own needs,” he said with a sniff.

“Yes, they can… can’t they?” the Prime asked, his optics boring into Barricade. The black mech took a small step away from the bars of his cell.

Prowl continued to glare at Barricade. “High Priest, about thirty vorn ago, my sire ordered you to destroy your research on an enchantment that channeled power from the Unmaker.” Prowl flared his door wings. “Did you destroy the research as ordered?”

After a pause while he thought, Barricade frowned at Prowl. “I assume Prince Smokescreen told you about that,” he said. He lifted his chin. “I did as I was told.”

“Really?” Prowl flicked his door wings. “Because the attacks that have been happening all along the Nyon border are being committed by mechs whose processors have been enchanted in a way very similar to the charm your priests developed.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Barricade sneered. “No one has survived an attack, nor seen what beasts performed the slaughter.”

“He has.” Ironhide jerked his thumb at Bluestreak. “So did another one of our Rangers.”

His door wings twitching, Barricade stared at Bluestreak for a moment before he threw his helm back in laughter. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “Not a single mech has yet survived an attack. All that’s been found have been dismembered frames.” 

“It’s true. I saw them.” Bluestreak shivered, the memory of the battle that he and Sunstreaker fought flashing through his memory. “They’re like dead things: unlit optics, greyed frames, and dry lines. They dismembered living mechs so that they could drain their energon.” He met Barricade’s stare and added, “And we discovered that their processors were enchanted using a charm that calls on the power of the Unmaker.”

“Fascinating,” Prowl said casually, tilting his helm to the side. He waited for Barricade’s optics to swing back to him. “That does sound very similar to what you were working on, doesn’t it?”

“So, Barricade,” Ironhide said. “You can voluntarily tell us who you gave the research to and why… Or we can make you tell us.” He made a fist and popped three of the joints in his hand. “Your choice, of course.”

Although his door wings quivered, Barricade held his helm high and looked at Ironhide challengingly. “I will tell you nothing,” he said.

“Then we won’t give you the choice,” Ultra Magnus said, speaking for the first time. He opened his immense hand to show Barricade a small bag. “Truth powder, made by our Chief Alchemist,” he said. The large mech poked at the bag with a digit, ignoring Barricade’s look of shock. “The funny thing about truth powder is that it will make a mech say **everything** they know. They will talk for groons, verbally regurgitating the contents of their memory, in extreme detail.” Ultra Magnus looked back up at the black mech. “It’s amazing what you hear when someone tells you everything they know, completely unfiltered.”

Barricade looked from Ultra Magnus to Prowl, his optics darting from one to the other and back again. Finally his gaze focused on Prowl. “Your Highness,” he said, his voice taking on a pleading note. “You cannot just let them do this!”

Prowl met Barricade’s optics. “I can and I will, unless you tell us who you gave your research to, and why.”

The High Priest stared at Prowl for a long moment before finally flashing his door wings high, showing off the Temple emblems on them. “We have long shared research with Nyon,” he said. “Chancellor Shockwave has encouraged the study of alchemy and the arcane arts, and we have collaborated with his scholars on many projects, including the one you seem fixated on.” He waved a hand dismissively. “His scholars already had all of the research; we didn’t need to ‘give’ it to anyone. For my part, I destroyed our records of the research, as the King ordered.”

Bluestreak’s door wings sagged slightly. This made sense. He had seen scholars from Nyon in and around the Temple all the time, and hadn’t thought much about it. If they were sharing research back and forth, it wouldn’t have mattered that Barricade had destroyed all of their research, as Nyon would already have had their own copies. If only Smokescreen had thought of that...

The Prime’s gaze had not left Barricade. Bluestreak noticed that the High Priest seemed to be avoiding the Prime’s optics. “I am curious,” said the Prime, “why the Praxian priests would be interested in developing enchantments that use a power so diametrically opposed to their deity’s.” 

Barricade’s optics flicked up to the Prime, then he focused on a spot over the larger mech’s shoulder. “I would not expect an outsider to understand the subtleties of the Praxian Temple’s studies.”

“Answer him,” said Prowl. “Or I walk away and let them do what they want to you.” Ironhide popped another knuckle in his fist.

Barricade’s red optics glimmered, and he faced Prowl squarely through the bars of his cell. “We are tasked with preparing Praxus for the return of Primus,” he said. His voice grew stronger, taking on the strident tone that Bluestreak remembered from his days in Praxus when the High Priest led the exultations to Primus in the temple. “We are ready for Primus to grace us with his presence. What better way is there to invite him to our plane of existence than to guide his brother here as well?”

Prowl understood immediately. “You’re mad.” The Prince whispered the words as his door wings fell low against his back. “You’re delusional and mad.”

Lifting a brow ridge, Barricade said, “We are ready for the final battle now. Why postpone it any later than necessary?”

“Hang on,” Ironhide said. “Are you tellin’ me that you are purposefully trying to invite the Unmaker here? You’re trying to bring about the end of the world?”

With a wide smile and bright optics, Barricade said, “The end of this ruined world will simply usher in the beginning of a new one, molded by Primus himself for his devoted children.”

“This is wrong!” Bluestreak walked forward to stand beside his brother. His door wings flared, caught in disbelief at what he was hearing. “This is not what is taught. This is not what you preached. This is –“

“Perhaps you did not listen closely enough to the sermons, young Prince,” Barricade growled. “Because paving the way for Primus to grace us with his presence is exactly what we have been working towards for all these vorn.”

Bluestreak stared at the High Priest while his processor quickly filtered through all of the lessons that had been beaten into him as a youngling. His optics widened as he realized that Barricade was right: from a twisted viewpoint, that is exactly what he had been taught. In order to meet the living entity of the creator Primus in this world, the world must first be ended. And who better to end the world than the opposite of Primus, the avatar of destruction? He shook his helm, still reeling in incredulity.

“I cannot believe that our sire knew what you were doing,” Prowl said, his door wings still lowered. “I cannot believe that he condoned what you are attempting to do.”

“He only had to trust that we have Cybertron’s best interests at spark,” Barricade said. His tone became sickly sweet as he added, “And we do. All true believers will be spared when the Unmaker arrives. The ancient texts have promised this.”

“I’ve heard enough. We have work to do. Commander, General, come with me.” The Prime turned on his pede and walked towards the door leading out of the dungeon, with Ultra Magnus and Ironhide following him. 

Bluestreak was still staring at Barricade, his processor spinning with what he had heard. “You are supposed to be followers of Primus,” he said softly. “Not...”

“You said that you’re ready for the return of Primus,” Prowl said. “That means you believe you have a vessel ready. Who is it?” he asked flatly. 

Barricade smiled at Prowl. “You think too literally,” he said, lifting a digit and pointing it at the Prince. “That processor of yours can only handle facts and figures, and not the subtleties of scripture. We do not need the designation of the vessel to know that he walks among us.” He stepped away from the bars to give himself room to spread his door wings and arms wide. His pose looked eerily similar to that of the statue of Primus in the Iacon cathedral. “The signs are all there. The portents have all been read. We know that the vessel is ready. All it needs is for Primus to fill it.” 

“You slag sucker!” Bluestreak banged his hand on the bars of the cell, making them ring with the impact. “If you think the ‘vessel’ is ready, why are you still setting up bondings for pure Praxians? Why did you help them take me?”

The High Priest turned surprised optics on Bluestreak. “To keep you safe, of course. Those of pure frame must be protected, and our lineage continued,” he said. “Surely you’ve seen the looks that the other mechs give you.” He looked up and down Bluestreak’s frame with a leer. “As a purebred, you are the image of Primus. And so they covet you and the perfection of your frame. If we did not protect you and provide you with a suitable mate, you would be taken advantage of, and...” Then he paused, miming a mock look of realization. “Oh, that’s right. You allow the impure to touch you. You allow your wanton nature to influence your actions. You have permitted yourself to be defiled. You –“

Bluestreak banged his fist on the bars once more, silencing the High Priest. “I hope you rust into dust in here,” he growled, and stormed out of the dungeon.

He heard pedes on stone behind him, but Bluestreak waited until he was in the upper hallway to turn around. Prowl walked behind him, with one of his Royal Guards trailing behind. “He authorized them to take me just out of spite,” he snarled. “And surely you can’t believe all that slag that he was just spouting.”

“Of course not,” Prowl replied. He fell into step with Bluestreak as they walked to the outer door. “But I am concerned that the King does believe it, or at least thinks he does.” Prowl frowned and twitched his wings. “I also don’t know how much detail of the priests’ plans that our sire actually knows. I know that Smokescreen was not aware of the... thrust of their plans.”

Bluestreak struggled to calm the vortex of fear and anger in his processor. He closed his optics for a moment. Vent in. Vent out. He opened his optics again and looked at his brother. “So what now?”

Prowl frowned and dipped his door wings low before bringing them back up to his shoulders in an expression of determination. “I will continue with my mission. I have almost finalized the agreement with Iacon and your Prime. My next planned stop is Polyhex.”

It did not pass Bluestreak’s notice that Prowl said ‘your Prime’ when referring to Optimus Prime. “You’re leaving Barricade and Fireblade, and those two temple guards here?” he asked.

Prowl nodded curtly. “Yes.” With a shrug, he added, “I would prefer to take the Viscount with me, but I suppose that cannot be helped. Lord Fireblade has a good helm for negotiations.”

Bluestreak said, “Out of the three of them, he was the only one who was kind to me... Well, aside from the whole abduction thing,” he said with a wry smile. “He really did feel bad about what they were doing. Maybe –“

“No,” Prowl said, interrupting Bluestreak. “He was in a position of power and he abused it. After that discussion with Barricade, I’ve had quite enough of that sort of slag.”

“He said he only did it because sire asked him to,” Bluestreak said. His door wings dipped, thinking about what Fireblade had said. “He said sire misses me still. Fireblade promised that if he saw me that –“

Prowl’s engine whined slightly, and Bluestreak glanced at him. “Sire... He is not well.” Prowl’s optics dimmed. “He has started... Forgetting things. Confusing things. The medics have been working hard to restore his processor power, but their treatments are having to become more and more frequent to have any effect.” The black and white mech shook his helm. “He will occasionally ask us to bring you to him. Sometimes he thinks that you’re just away on maneuvers with the Cavalry.”

Bluestreak frowned. He had never thought their sire had given any serious thought to him. As the third creation, he was always considered the ‘extra’ offspring, both surplus and superfluous. “Well, at least he’s thinking about me for a change. That’s different from how it was when I was in Praxus, except when I made him angry.”

Prowl stopped, turned, and put a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder. “Please understand... Everyone thought you were deactivated. We lit a memorial fire for you in the Temple three vorn ago,” Prowl said, his vocalizer tinged with static. “So when sire asked Fireblade to bring you home, the Viscount didn’t think that he would ever actually see you. He was just making an empty promise to a mech who had begun losing his faculties.” Prowl grimaced and began walking down the corridor again. “He could have just said that he had not seen you, and let it go at that. Sire would never have known.” Growling, Prowl added, “He disobeyed me, and broke the promise I made to the Prime. I cannot just let that stand.”

Bluestreak cycled his optics and hurried after Prowl. He knew Prowl had said they thought he was dead, but he hadn’t actually thought they’d held a memorial for him. Then he widened his optics as his processor put several pieces together. “If the King is failing, does that mean Smokescreen...”

Prowl nodded, and his door wings quivered with a rare show of anxiety. “The succession proceedings have begun, but that also means it is a very dangerous time for Smokescreen. The Temple has an incredible amount of influence right now.” 

With a little smile, Bluestreak said, “Then it’s probably very helpful to have Barricade here, and not in Praxus pushing buttons behind the scenes. So you have Fireblade to thank for that, at least.”

Prowl nodded, and his lips mirrored Bluestreak’s smile. “Yes. There is that.”

They had reached the citadel’s courtyard. The sun had just set, and the evening air was beginning to cool. “When will you leave Iacon?” Bluestreak asked.

“As soon as the treaty is finalized,” Prowl replied. “The cycle after next, probably.”

Bluestreak glanced at the Royal Guard standing a proper distance back from the two brothers, then smiled at his brother. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

Prowl thought for a moment. “I was thinking about retiring to my rooms and reviewing the details of the treaty.” He tilted his helm at Bluestreak. “Why? What were you thinking?”

His smile widening, Bluestreak wagged his door wings and said, “Remember when we were younger, and we would sneak away from the castle to go to the pub?”

* * *

There was a band playing at Maccadams that night. Normally, Bluestreak avoided Maccadams on nights that there was live music, since it was next to impossible to hold a conversation over the music. However, it also meant that everyone was focused on the stage, rather than other patrons in the pub.

It was the perfect night for two full-framed Praxians – one a prince and one a Ranger – to melt into the crowd and simply enjoy the evening.

As soon as Bluestreak had mentioned that he wanted to take Prowl to Maccadams, Sideswipe took charge. By the time Bluestreak arrived with Prowl, Sideswipe had secured a table in the back, and had collected the usual suspects: Sunstreaker, Knock Out, and Hound. All of them were already seated when the Praxians walked in, and Sideswipe waved them over. The two Royal Guards who accompanied Prowl didn’t know quite what to make of the situation, but took up positions on either side of the booth that the group had commandeered. 

“I’m gonna get us all some drinks, all right?” Sideswipe hollered over the music. Without waiting for a response, he vanished into the crowd.

Leaning close to Bluestreak so that he could be heard, Prowl said, “You’re right. This does remind me of the pub near the castle.” He smiled. “I can see why you enjoy this place.”

Bluestreak smiled at Prowl and then leaned back, gesturing at the green mech sitting beside him. “I know you met in passing when we returned with Fireblade, but... Prowl, this is Hound. And Hound, this is Prince Prowl, my older brother.”

Hound leaned across Bluestreak and offered his arm to the Prince. Prowl looked at it for a moment before grasping Hound’s forearm. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Your Highness,” Hound said with a wide smile. “I can definitely see the family resemblance.”

“Just Prowl while we’re here, please,” said Prowl. “And the pleasure is mine.”

Just then Sideswipe returned with a tray. “I forgot to take orders, so I just got us all some of that Polyhexian mid-grade,” he said, passing around the drinks. “I hope that’s all right with you, Your Highness?” he asked as he handed a glass to Prowl. “I know our other Prince likes it,” he added, jerking a thumb at Bluestreak with a grin.

Prowl took a sip from the glass, and his optics brightened slightly. “This is actually quite good,” he said to Bluestreak.

“I think you’ll find that Praxus has been missing out on a lot of little luxuries like this because of the closed borders,” Bluestreak said, lifting his own glass with a smile. 

They probably stayed later and drank more that evening than was wise, but Bluestreak enjoyed every last moment. It had been too long since he and Prowl had been able to really relax, and Bluestreak’s spark twirled happily as he saw his brother’s dry humour and quick wit that he had missed for so many vorn.

As they made their way back to the citadel late that night, Prowl stopped Bluestreak with a hand on his arm. Knock Out, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker continued their loud and merry way across the courtyard towards the Ranger barracks, but Hound noticed that the brothers had stopped. He waited a short distance away to give the Praxians a moment alone.

“I am so happy to have spent this time with you, Bluestreak,” Prowl said. Bluestreak noticed that Prowl had not slipped up on his designation all evening. “You have... matured. Grown. You are more confident and sure of yourself. And I am proud of who you’ve become.” He gently brushed the Ranger emblems on Bluestreak’s shoulders, and gave him a sad smile. “I think I will still miss you terribly, but I am glad that you have found your own way in the world.”

A surge of affection welled up in Bluestreak’s spark for his brother. “I’ve thought the same of you, these past few cycles.” He glanced away. “I was so angry at you for so long, even though I knew you couldn’t have known what you’d done...” He looked back up at the white and black mech, lifting his door wings high. “But thank you for letting me be angry. I needed that.”

“Of course.” Prowl’s optics flicked towards Hound, who was still waiting for Bluestreak. The green mech was staring up at the sky, absorbed in looking at the constellations above him. “And your Hound is a fine match for you.” He looked back to Bluestreak. “I wish the two of you nothing but happiness.”

Bluestreak leaned forward and hugged Prowl. The Prince wrapped his own arms around Bluestreak. “Thank you,” Bluestreak said. “And I hope that you and Smokey can bring the changes to Praxus that it needs.” He pulled back to look at Prowl again. “If anyone can do it, I know the two of you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that wraps up Act 3! 
> 
> FYI: Plot is going to begin happening fast and furious starting in the next few chapters as we roll towards the climax of the story. To make sure I've got continuity and editing all square and good I'm going to switch to posting two chapters a week instead of three. That should give me enough time to get writing AND editing done.


	15. The Gathering Storm

Prowl departed for Polyhex early in the morning, three cycles later. Because he was out on patrol again, Bluestreak missed his brother’s departure. This time his orders took him to the southern border with Nyon in one of the new, larger patrol groups that Ironhide had arranged after the attack on Bluestreak and Sunstreaker.

The patrol passed uneventfully, fortunately, which gave Bluestreak plenty of time to reflect on his time with Prowl. Was it really possible that he and Smokescreen could bring down the temple priests, and improve life for the citizens of Praxus? He wished that he had had a chance to speak with Smokescreen, too, in order to see what kinds of plans he had for when he became King.

King. Bluestreak settled on his tires as his patrol group drove down the road. He had always known that Smokescreen was destined to ascend the Quartz Throne someday, being the first creation of King Cygnus. It was simply a fact of his life, like the sky being red or crystals ringing when you struck them. But Bluestreak had never really considered that when Smokescreen became King, he would have the ability to **change** things.

Somehow, his snarky, obstinate eldest brother, who used to dodge boring chores and slip out of lessons, was looking to lead the country out of the darkness that had befallen it.

It seemed like a preposterous idea. But if there was a chance that it could happen...

Before leaving on patrol, Bluestreak had stopped in the cathedral. The priests had grown used to seeing him, even when he came without Sunstreaker. He knelt on a cushion before the statue of Primus, and looked up at the icon’s spread hands and placid expression. The statue’s carved optics looked down at him, dark as usual.

Bluestreak steadied his ventilations, calming his spark, and focused his thoughts on his brothers. Normally he would just let his processor idle calmly, but this time he had a plea to make.

 _Primus,_ he thought, closing his optics. _Err, I haven’t asked you for much, not even when –_ Bluestreak cut off that processor thread and refocused on what he wanted to ask for. _I left Praxus because it had become a terrible place... Not just for me, but for everyone. Maybe that was the coward’s way out, but I just couldn’t live there anymore. Not like that. Not with what they wanted me to... Not with what they **required** me to do._

Bluestreak pulled another full vent cycle as he felt his spark start to spin faster. He waited until it had calmed before continuing. _What’s being done in Praxus is being done in your name. Uh... Well, I guess you would already know that, since you’re Primus._ He bit his lip to stop the little self-depreciated laugh from escaping his vocalizer. _But I’m sure that it’s not what you intended, and I can’t believe it’s what you wanted._

He opened his optics and looked up at the statue again. _My brothers want to change things. They want to do right by the people of Praxus. Please... If there is anything you can do to help them... Please do it. They will need all of the help they can get._ He blew the air out of his vents that he realized he’d been holding. _I can’t be there to help them, so please..._

He felt a warmth wrap itself around his spark, and his optics widened as the familiar feel of a merge began. It was gentle, nowhere near as powerful as the feeling of when he and Hound merged, but he could feel another presence with him. The other presence twirled around his spark, enveloping it with love, compassion, and hope.

The feeling receded almost as quickly as he’d felt it, leaving him feeling shaky and slightly drained. He stared up at the statue. As the last light of the sun shone through the cathedral windows, Bluestreak saw it light up the optics with a faint glimmer which faded out as soon as he noticed it.

“I hope that’s a yes,” Bluestreak whispered to the marble statue.

Out on his patrol route, Bluestreak recalled that moment in the cathedral and thought of his brothers again. Prowl, who was fiercely loyal and dedicated to his work, and Smokescreen, who was mercurial but passionate, always wishing for the best for the people.

They were two idealists against the entrenched beliefs and powers of the temple priests. Bluestreak swerved slightly on his tires as he drove. His brothers really did need any advantage they could find, even if it came from the supernatural. 

Before he left Iacon, Prowl had confided in Bluestreak that he was concerned about returning without the High Priest. He had dispatched his own attendant and a Royal Guard to return to Praxus with a message about Barricade’s and Fireblade’s detention, simply so that it was not a surprise when he returned without them. He also promised that he would avoid any mention of the absent Prince living in Iacon.

“You still have four temple guards tagging along with you,” Bluestreak had said. “Aren’t you worried that they might interfere with your mission, somehow?”

“Of course,” Prowl said. “But I’m watching them, and I still have three Royal Guards accompanying me. Plus, Lord Fireblade has ordered his attendant to obey me as he would obey the Viscount, so I won’t be totally alone.” He exvented, lifting his door wings in resolve. “I don’t have much of a choice in any event. We need to get these agreements made before things get worse. And with the way things have been going, I am afraid that things are going to get worse very quickly.”

Somehow, just like when they were growing up, Prowl was always right.

* * *

The citadel was in an uproar when Bluestreak and his patrol group returned.

While Bluestreak’s patrol group had performed a circuit along the southern border with Nyon, the other group had done the northern half of the border. Blurr had been with the northern group, and was sent ahead of the group with news of what they had found. He had arrived in Iacon just a few groons before Bluestreak’s patrol had come in. 

“Ironhide will have to take your report later,” said Ultra Magnus when their patrol reported in. “The northern patrol caught one of those cursed mechs and he left to help bring it in.”

“They caught one? Was it alone?” Bluestreak asked, running alongside Ultra Magnus in the hallway.

“No. And if you want to make yourself useful, get yourself down to the infirmary and make sure it’s ready. We’ve got wounded coming in,” he said sharply, then began barking orders at other mechs, Rangers and Guards alike, who had come to help.

Bluestreak hurried down to the infirmary, and found Knock Out working on patching an ugly-looking gash in Blurr’s plating. “Ah, just in time,” Knock Out said. “Can you please fetch me some more flex tape?” 

“Where’s Ratchet?” Bluestreak asked, looking around the room. He grabbed the flex tape out of one of the cabinets and handed it to Knock Out.

“Ratchet went out with Ironhide. Skids and Windcharger were both pretty badly hurt, and I think we’re only all still alive because we had Sideswipe and Sunstreaker with us. Those two kept us all functioning, but I have to tell you I don’t know how you and Sunstreaker managed two dozen on your own since we were almost completely overwhelmed with six of us!” Blurr exclaimed in his typical rapid fashion.

Bluestreak put the tape where Knock Out pointed, and asked, “How many of those… things were there?”

“I’m not totally sure, since I didn’t wait until we got a full count because they wanted to get someone back here as fast as possible to get help, but there must have been about fifty,” Blurr said.

Fifty of those things! Bluestreak suppressed a shiver in his frame. At least they’d had a lot of help. 

The streets of the city were cleared when the cursed mech was brought in, since the Prime wanted to avoid any unnecessary panic. The Rangers had confined the mech in a cage that had been designed for a hell hound. While it might have been a tight fit for a normal mech, one of the twins had ripped off all of the mech’s limbs. It lay at the bottom of the cage, squirming and snarling at anyone who came near.

Bluestreak walked across the courtyard towards the cursed mech’s cage. Its dark optics stared around as if it could see out of them. Its frame was the grey of death, and nothing came out of its vocalizer except animalistic sounds.

The Praxian found Sideswipe and Sunstreaker standing near the cage, helping guard it. He greeted them with a wave. “How are you two doing?” he asked quietly, keeping a slight distance from Sunstreaker.

“I’m all right,” said Sunstreaker. He looked at his brother. “Sideswipe helped me hold it together.”

Sideswipe put a hand on his brother’s arm. “I’m just glad I was there for him this time.” He glanced at Bluestreak. “They’d been splitting us up on patrols because we’re both hand-to-hand specialists, but...” He exvented. “Now that we’re doing larger patrols, and we’ve been running into survival combat situations, I’m going to ask Ironhide to keep us paired up.” 

Sunstreaker’s optics glowed in the dim light of the courtyard as he nodded. “I didn’t feel the...” His engine stalled, and he started over. “With Sideswipe there as a buffer, I was able to keep my spark centered.” He looked at this brother for a long moment before taking a deep and steadying pull of air through his vents. “I **know** Primus helped me though that as much as Sideswipe did. In the Pits, we fought together, but there I could never stop... I couldn’t stop myself when...”

As Sunstreaker’s vocalizer hitched, Sideswipe pulled his twin against his chest.

“All right, get away from it. Let us through.” Ironhide’s voice carried over the sound of the crowd and the cursed mech’s growls. Bluestreak looked up to see Ironhide leading Ultra Magnus and the Prime towards the cage, and he stepped back.

“We are preparing a containment area in the basement where Perceptor has been working,” said Ultra Magnus as they approached. “It should be ready before daybreak.”

“Good.” The Prime walked up to the bars of the cage and looked at the limbless mech inside.

As soon as the cursed mech’s sightless optics looked towards the Prime, its guttural noises stopped. The dead optics opened wide as if they were taking in the view of the large mech approaching.

The Prime knelt near the mech’s helm, looking at it with optics full of sadness. “What has been done to you?” Optimus Prime said quietly. He reached his hand towards the bars of the cage.

“Prime –“ Ultra Magnus moved forward as if to intercept the Prime’s hand to keep him from touching the cage. 

Everyone froze when the mech opened its mouth again. Instead of the grunts and snarls that it had been uttering, it moaned in a thin, reedy voice, “Priiiimussss....”

The Prime lowered his hand, but Bluestreak noticed that his optics remained fixed on the cursed mech. “No. I am not Primus. I only safeguard his relic, the Matrix,” Optimus Prime said.

As if the Prime had not spoken, the cursed mech stretched its neck as far as it could towards Optimus. “Priiiimussss....”

A rustle swept through the small crowd of Rangers and Guards as mechs glanced at each other. Bluestreak looked over at Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. The yellow mech’s face was impassive, but Sideswipe had an expression of dismay. 

Bluestreak looked back to Ultra Magnus as the large mech spoke. “Prime, sir,” said Ultra Magnus, hovering over the Prime’s shoulder. “We should move the cage out of the courtyard and closer to the containment area in the basement.”

Nodding slowly, the Prime stood, never looking away from the caged mech. “Whatever this thing is, it was once a living mech like you and me,” he said. “Treat it with the respect you would give to any mech.”

“Of course, Prime,” Ultra Magnus said. He ordered several of the guards to begin moving the cage into the basement of the citadel.

As the Prime stepped away, however, the caged mech hissed again. When the Prime turned to look at it, the mech’s blind optics narrowed as if fixing the Prime with a stare.

“Priiiimussss....” it moaned. Then, louder, it hissed, “Unicronnnn... comessss....”

* * *

All available Rangers and Guards were drafted to help unload the incoming frames from the mechs who transported them from where they had fallen. Every available mech with an alt mode capable of hauling a frame was utilized. As the sun was setting the next evening most of the frames had been brought in to Iacon, and were being brought into the basement of the citadel.

Bluestreak and Hound carried another frame into the room and carefully set it on one of the free tables. As they straightened up, Hound threw a wary look at the caged mech in the corner. “That thing freaks me out every time we walk past it,” he said. “It’s bad enough that it looks dead, but being limbless, too…” The green mech shook his shoulders to suppress a shudder.

Perceptor crouched near the cursed mech, peering at it through the bars and then jotting notes on a pad. “Have you figured out what made it say… that?” Bluestreak asked the alchemist. He avoided saying the Unmaker’s designation; the superstition surrounding speaking those glyphs out loud was deeply entrenched in his programming.

“Yes. Well, sort of. I need more data,” Perceptor said, frustration seeping into his tone. He frowned down at the cursed mech. “The Prime came down here earlier today, and it reacted in the same way it did last night. But I can’t determine whether it’s responding to the Prime himself, or to the Matrix.”

“And separating them is probably a no-go,” Bluestreak said thoughtfully. 

“Of course! I couldn’t do that.” Perceptor looked up at the Praxian. “I couldn’t ask the Prime to give me the Matrix for the same reasons I couldn’t ask you to give me your door wings. They’re as much a part of you as the Matrix is part of the Prime.”

“But not inseparable,” Bluestreak murmured. He caught Hound looking at him with concern and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ve given up on the idea of removing my wings.” He fluttered his door wings slightly.

“Good,” Hound said with an air of relief. He smiled and added quietly, “I’ve gotten kind of attached to them.”

“If I had something that was enchanted using power drawn from Primus, I might be able to test my theory,” Perceptor said, standing up. 

“I thought you said you’d mapped out that frequency vorn ago,” Bluestreak said.

Perceptor looked at him in surprise. “I did! But mapping a frequency is very different than actually using the power. I’m afraid it’s been a bit beyond me.” He carried his pad over to the lab bench where his supplies and notes were spread out. “However, I have a colleague in Polyhex with whom I have been sharing my research. He is an expert in the arcane arts, and one of the premier sorcerers on Cybertron. I sent a note to him this morning to see if he’s had any luck on this front. Hopefully he gets back to me soon with a positive answer.”

“A sorcerer?” Bluestreak lifted his door wings in surprise. He thought back to the one sorcerer he had known in Praxus. “I thought they were all a little… strange. Something about the routine exposure to arcane energies altering how their processor works.” 

Perceptor looked surprised. “Well, I suppose strange is one way to describe him. But he is also brilliant, with one of the fastest processors I know. If anyone can figure this out, it’s Wheeljack.”

* * *

The dungeon was dim, but Bluestreak adjusted his optics so he could make out the occupants in the cells.

Barricade was being kept in a cell to the right of the main entrance of the dungeon, apart from the other prisoners. He was sitting on the bench in his cell, door wings spread and optics closed, loudly reciting one of the devotions Bluestreak remembered from his youth. 

Bluestreak turned left.

The two Temple guards lounged in their cells, staring at him with open contempt as he walked past. The third cell held Lord Fireblade. He looked up when he heard Bluestreak’s pedes on the stone, and stood up immediately.

“Your Highness,” he said quietly, dropping to one knee.

“I don’t lay any claim to that title. Not anymore,” Bluestreak said. “Please. Get up.” He waited as Fireblade stood up slowly, arms at his sides, before continuing. “I asked the Prime for leniency for you. You showed me kindness, and regret for what you’d done.”

“Thank you, Your – uh, Ranger... Bluestreak.” Fireblade stumbled over Bluestreak’s title and designation. “I am sorry for what I did. I swear that I was simply trying to fulfill a promise I made to your sire before we left Praxus.” He shook his helm. “And I didn’t think that they would force you to... Not the King’s son.” He released a shuddering vent of air. “If I could do it over again, I would have let you be,” Fireblade added quietly. He closed his optics. “My only thought was to make your sire happy again.”

“Prowl told me that the King is not well.” 

Fireblade bowed his helm. “That is true,” he said. “It hurts me to see him like that. He was so strong and quick-witted when we were younglings.” 

Bluestreak’s optics brightened. “You were friends with my sire?” He knew that Fireblade was very loyal to the King, but hadn’t realized that their relationship was any deeper than that.

Fireblade glanced up at Bluestreak. “Growing up, we were good friends, before he ascended the Quartz Throne.” He shrugged. “After he became King, there couldn’t be any impression of favouritism to any noble house, so we had to distance ourselves. But I never forgot our youth together.” He smiled sadly. “That’s why when he asked to bring you home if I saw you, I couldn’t say no.”

Flicking his door wings, Bluestreak repeated Prowl’s words. “You could have just said you hadn’t seen me. Especially considering what they do to runaways.” When Fireblade looked away with shame in his optics, Bluestreak relented and changed the subject. He pointed a digit in the direction of Barricade’s cell. “And I take it you overheard what he said the other cycle.” 

“Yes.” Fireblade looked at the floor. “To say that I am appalled... That would be an understatement.”

“You’re in good company,” Bluestreak said with a smile. “I think... I would **hope** that most of Praxus would be appalled.”

Fireblade looked back up at Bluestreak. “I swear that I will do anything within my power to see that the King and Praxus learn of what is being done in their name,” he said. 

Bluestreak nodded. “Good. I’m glad. My brothers want to improve conditions in Praxus for everyone, pure and mixed alike. If the court knew what the Temple was really planning, and why, it would help them tremendously.” 

“I will do whatever I can, whenever I am able, sir.” With a deep bow, Fireblade added, “Your will is law, sir.”

Ignoring Fireblade’s insinuation that he was still royalty, Bluestreak nodded and said, “Prowl didn’t want to see you released early, but I’m going to see what I can do.” He reached through the bars of the cell and offered Fireblade his forearm. “As your equal, it’s the least I could do for you.”

Fireblade stared at Bluestreak’s arm with wide optics for a moment before gripping it tightly in his own hand. “I am humbled by your mercy, sir,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

* * *

Hound and Bluestreak were practicing in the sparring ring when the claxon sounded. The two mechs raced out into the courtyard, followed by the other mechs who had been practicing. 

A Guard in the watchtower shouted out the warning. “Incoming spotted! Airborne, north west, two fliers!” 

Guards poured into the courtyard, ready to defend the citadel. Bluestreak and Hound took their place with the Rangers who had also responded to the alert.

Scanning the darkening sky in the direction that the alarm had indicated, Bluestreak said, “There!” Two shapes became visible, growing larger as they approached. A moment later they heard the roar of engines.

“Seekers,” Hound muttered. He readied his rifle. “Friendlies, I hope.”

Silverbolt and Air Raid rose to meet the seekers, circling to flank them as they flew in. As the Rangers’ aerials approached them, the seekers waggled their wings and slowed. “I don’t think they’re hostile,” Bluestreak said, and Hound nodded in agreement.

Ultra Magnus stepped forward as the seekers landed, the Vosians transforming just before alighting in front of the large mech. Bluestreak recognized the blue one as Thundercracker, the envoy from Vos that had arrived over a stellar cycle before. 

Thundercracker bowed his helm towards Ultra Magnus, his posture alert even though he was obviously fatigued. “Ultra Magnus.”

“Thundercracker.” Ultra Magnus inclined his helm as well. “This is unexpected.”

The seeker lifted his helm, and his red optics brightened as he saw the Prime approaching. “Prime, sir.” He bowed his helm again. 

The Prime stopped next to Ultra Magnus and nodded at the seeker. “Thundercracker. I fear your unannounced visit means that you bring unhappy news.”

With a nod, Thundercracker said, “Nyon invaded Vos three cycles ago. All of our towns along the border and along the main road to the capital have been razed, and their occupants slaughtered.”

A murmur swept through the Guards and Rangers standing nearby. 

“I assume you are here to invoke our mutual aid treaty, then?” the Prime asked.

Thundercracker shook his helm. “No. That was originally going to be the purpose of my visit, but the situation has changed as we were preparing to leave. Now, I am here to warn you.” He looked at Ultra Magnus, then back to the Prime. “We were ready to face them. One we were made aware of the attack, outlying settlements were evacuated. We were confident we could repel their forces, since our capital is well-defended. But, three cycles ago, the attack stopped suddenly. The… dead things that were rampaging towards our capital simply stopped, and after a few groons they turned around.” 

“Maybe they realized they couldn’t break through your defenses,” Ultra Magnus suggested.

Thundercracker shook his helm. “That was what we thought, too, although we’ve seen very little intelligence in their movements. No, they now appear to have another destination in mind.“ The seeker lifted his wings and added, “They are all heading towards Iacon now.”


	16. Ready Your Weapons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sticky and spark interfacing. (However, it focuses on the emotions rather than the actions.)

Bluestreak grimly pushed another power clip into a charger, then looked at the stack next to him that still needed to be charged. He exvented and picked up the next rifle to be cleaned and inspected.

No matter how you looked at the information that Thundercracker had brought to the Prime, it wasn’t good. A vast army was heading towards Iacon. Thundercracker said that it took groons to totally overfly the horde. “They number in the tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands,” Ironhide said grimly when he briefed the Rangers on the details. He added that at their current speed, they would reach Iacon in a deca-cycle.

And were they troops? Or monsters? Thundercracker said that the reports received from survivors indicated that almost all of the army seemed to be animated, lifeless corpses. That description sounded all too familiar to the Rangers who had run into the cursed mechs before. And based on what Thundercracker said, Nyon’s army had turned towards Iacon the moment that the cursed mech hissed the Unmaker’s designation at Optimus Prime.

Thundercracker reported that Vos was already preparing to send five hundred mechs, mostly seekers, to Iacon. “It may seem like a small number, but they still need to help their citizens recover from the attack that they have just suffered,” Ironhide had said.

The Prime sent flyers to Tarn and Polyhex to ask for aid in defense of Iacon, and he also sent a special note to Prowl, who would have arrived in Polyhex only a deca-cycle earlier. Perhaps Prowl would be able to convince Praxus to send help as well.

Bluestreak replaced another power clip in a charger. He had been gone for so long from Praxus that he couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what the court would think of an agreement with Iacon... Never mind what the Temple would think. But if Prowl could do anything to convince the walled country to send help, Bluestreak knew it would be needed.

Tens of thousands… maybe hundreds of thousands of those dead things. Even if every country sent all they could, they would be incredibly out-numbered.

So Iacon prepared. The Rangers were prepping weapons, ballistics, fuel and repair kits. The Prime’s Guard were working to reinforce the city’s walls, and were going to outlying settlements and towns between Iacon and the Nyon border asking the residents to come inside the walls of the city. The Prime was focused on protecting his people first, which Bluestreak couldn’t really argue with. However, as one of the Rangers who would be facing down the hoard of cursed mechs that was making its way to their border, Bluestreak couldn’t help but feel slightly hopeless.

He pulled in a full vent of air and picked up the next rifle to be inspected.

It was dark outside the armory when Bluestreak finished. He set the last rifle in its stand, stretched, and turned to find Ironhide standing in the doorway. “Sir!” Bluestreak said, standing up straight.

“Go get some fuel, Bluestreak,” Ironhide said. “And then go find someplace to relax and think about something else for a little while. You’ve been going for almost a full cycle.” He gave Bluestreak a small smile and added, “I just sent Hound to get some fuel as well. Go do something together. Clear your processors.”

Flicking his door wings and smiling at the fact that Ironhide had picked up on his relationship with Hound, he said, “Thank you sir. I appreciate it.” Then he made his way to the mess hall.

Bluestreak grabbed a cube of fuel and slid into a seat next to Hound, who seemed to be lost in thought. The green mech looked up in surprise, and smiled when he saw Bluestreak. “Let me guess, Ironhide told you to come find me so we can blow off some steam,” he said.

“Yeah.” Bluestreak knocked back half of his fuel ration before meeting Hound’s optics. “Are you... Are you doing ok? After what we heard?”

Hound shrugged. “I keep telling myself this is what I signed on for,” he said. He frowned down at his fuel. “Sort of.”

“I’m not going to lie. I’m concerned.” Bluestreak stopped, shook his helm, and said, “No. I’m slagging scared. The numbers that Ironhide was talking about...”

Blowing air from his vents, Hound grabbed Bluestreak’s hand. “If you weren’t scared, I’d be asking Ratchet to take a look at you,” Hound said with a smile. He finished his fuel and set down the cube. “But whatever happens, we’re going to face it together, right?”

Bluestreak smiled at his lover and squeezed his hand. “Right.” Then he tapped a digit on the side of the cube with his free hand. “Do… Do you want to come to the cathedral with me?” When Hound tilted his helm, Bluestreak quickly added, “Sunstreaker’s busy, and…” He met Hound’s optics. “And I know it’s not your thing, but I’d really appreciate it.”

Hound had previously told Bluestreak that while the cathedral was a nice place, he felt a closer connection to Primus when he was out in the wilderness, under the sun and the stars. But today the green mech shrugged and smiled. “Sure, I can come with you. I know that going there helps you. And with what we know is coming…”

“Thanks,” Bluestreak said. He smiled. “And then we can go to Maccadams later if you want.”

“Deal!” replied Hound.

The cathedral was crowded. Evacuees from outside the city walls were gathered in little knots, while Guards and Rangers were scattered through the room. Several priests moved among those in attendance, alert for anyone who needed assistance or someone to talk to.

Bluestreak and Hound found two cushions next to each other. Hound awkwardly lowered himself into a sitting position while Bluestreak easily settled into his customary kneeling posture. 

The Praxian watched as Hound closed his optics and let the air out of his vents slowly. He gently put his hand on the green mech’s thigh strut and closed his own optics, calming his ventilation with practiced ease.

He let his processor idle down until all he could do was process the sensory data coming in. His hand on Hound’s thigh, the metal warm beneath his digits. The soft murmurs of a priest talking to a troubled evacuee. The muffled sound of pedes on stone. The movement of the air currents in the large, arched space above him.

After feeling it so many times, it did not come as a surprise when Bluestreak felt the soft touch in his spark. Warmth and love, shot through with hope, wrapped itself around his spark, and he mentally leaned into the sensation. But there was a new feeling this time as well: anticipation. 

He felt Hound stiffen under his hand, and heard his sudden intake of air. Bluestreak looked at Hound as the green mech’s optics flew open and looked at him. “Is that what you were telling me about?” he gasped.

“Like a merge?” When Hound nodded, Bluestreak smiled. “Yeah. And it’s a little different every time that I feel it.” He glanced up at the statue. “And to be honest, I still can’t believe that it’s actually Primus.”

They sat there in silence for another klik before Hound grabbed Bluestreak’s hand. “Can we go to Maccadams now?” he asked, his tone slightly plaintive. When Bluestreak looked at him, he smiled and added, “I think I need a drink after that.”

* * *

Help began to trickle in a few cycles later.

The first to arrive in Iacon City were the Vosian seekers. The roar of four hundred engines in the sky caused a slight panic amongst the city folk, but the Prime’s Guards quickly worked to calm the crowds who rushed out to stare into the sky. Arriving three cycles behind them were another hundred Vosians: ground frames with ballistic capabilities. 

Bluestreak was helping set up a camp outside of the city walls for the new arrivals when word came that another contingent was arriving. He watched as a small, scruffy-looking group of mechs approached the Prime, led by a white racer whose frame was all spikes and curves.

The racer went down on one knee before the Prime. “My designation is Deadlock, captain of Lord Megatron’s guard,” he said as he straightened again. His red optics met the Prime’s evenly. “Lord Megatron sends his regrets that he could not be of more assistance. However, he has sent his own guard to help Iacon defeat the evil that marches on it.” 

The Prime nodded gravely. “We are grateful for any help that Tarn is able to provide, Captain Deadlock. My Rangers will assist you in getting settled in the camp.”

It was while Bluestreak was helping carry fuel out to the camp that he was hit with a wash of despair. There were so few mechs here. Iacon’s Rangers, military and the Prime’s Guard totaled only about a thousand mechs in all. Tarn had been able to muster only a small number of mechs. Even if Polyhex arrived with help, the numbers described by Thundercracker meant that they would be hugely outnumbered.

Bluestreak thought of the terror and chaos he felt in his one encounter with the cursed mechs, then tried to picture facing tens of thousands of them. 

He almost purged his tanks there in the camp.

“Are you all right?” Knock Out asked, setting down the container he was carrying. 

Bluestreak nodded, then paused and shook his helm. “There’s so few of us, Knock Out,” he said. He shuddered, not caring that the motion was amplified in his door wings. “Those things... You haven’t seen them.” He looked up at Knock Out. “When we meet them... I don’t think any of us are going to make it.”

Knock Out looked at Bluestreak for a long moment before putting his hand on the Praxian’s shoulder. “Maybe not,” he said. “But I swore an oath to protect Cybertron from evil with my wits, frame and spark... And even if I don’t believe in Primus, I meant the rest of the words I spoke in my oath.” He smiled. “If we can bring down whatever’s heading our way, great. If not, then at least I can help slow it down until someone else can stop it.”

* * *

Seven full cycles after the Prime had sent couriers asking for assistance, Ironhide found Bluestreak helping construct barriers that could be deployed in combat. “Bluestreak!” he said. “You’re wanted out in the camp.”

Slightly mystified, Bluestreak followed Ironhide outside. As they reached the city gates, he heard shouting voices and a smattering of horns. When they stepped outside of the gates, Bluestreak gaped at the huge army that was rolling into the camp. “More help?” he asked. Then he saw the banners. “Polyhex came!” he exclaimed.

Ironhide nodded. “Yup. And they brought a **lot** of help.” He angled across the field towards one of the large Polyhexian banners. 

Underneath the banner was a small group of mechs. The Prime was there already with his Guards, greeting a lithe white and black racer with a blue visor. Standing next to him alongside another guard was –

“Prowl!” Bluestreak ran forward to greet his brother. It had been just over two deca-cycles since Bluestreak had seen his brother last, but after not seeing him for so long he was glad to lay optics on him again. 

The Praxian turned at the sound of his designation and smiled. “Bluestreak!” He gestured towards the Polyhexian standing next to him. “I would like you to meet General Jazz of the Polyhexian Infantry.”

“We are most grateful for your generous assistance, General,” said the Prime. “We may be facing incredible odds, so the addition of your forces to ours is gratefully received.”

“How many did you bring?” Bluestreak asked, his door wings tipping upwards as he looked at the huge army that was still arriving. 

“We brought fifteen hundred ground mechs, two hundred of ‘em with ballistic capabilities, and another one hundred flyers,” General Jazz said. 

“That’s gonna go a long way towards helpin’ us, General,” Ironhide said. “You’ve just about doubled the size of our forces.”

Jazz grimaced slightly. “Once we heard what ya were up against, we knew we had to come and do what we could. Nyon’s been a thorn in our side for vorn, so we’ll be glad to do whatever we can to help ya.”

“I had just finalized the agreement between Praxus and Polyhex when we received your message, Prime,” Prowl said. “I sent one of my attendants back to Praxus to ask for help, but...” His door wings tipped downward slightly. “I cannot even guess at whether we will receive a response.”

“I understand, Prince Prowl,” the Prime said. He turned to the General. “We will meet in two groons with the other leaders to plan our next steps. Until then. Ironhide, with me, please.” 

As soon as the Prime left with Ironhide and his guards, Jazz turned back to Prowl. A wide smile crossed his lips as he looked at Bluestreak. “I’m gonna guess that this is the wayward brother ya told me about, Prowler?”

 _Prowler?_ Bluestreak looked at his brother quickly, and was surprised to see Prowl’s door wings flutter slightly behind him.

“Ah... Yes. This is Bluestreak, with the Iaconian Rangers.” Prowl managed to still his wings for a moment as he spoke. “He’s been with them for almost half a vorn.”

“Nice to meet ya,” Jazz said, extending his arm. As Bluestreak gripped it, Jazz added, “I could see the family resemblance right away. Yer almost as good-lookin’ as yer brother here.” Prowl’s door wings fluttered again as Jazz grinned. “Anyways, I gotta go see to my mechs. I’ll catch up with ya later!” With that Jazz turned on his pede and strode away.

Bluestreak stared at his brother with a smile. “Prowler?” he asked quietly.

Prowl’s engine growled slightly before stalling in a whine. “The General is an incorrigible flirt,” he said finally. He shrugged his door wings, flicking them back into the neutral angle just behind his shoulders. “However, he has been extremely helpful in my negotiations with Minister Zodiac, and offered the assistance of his troops as soon as the Prime’s message arrived.”

“You’re all flustered because he’s been helpful. Sure.” Bluestreak laughed and waved his own door wings in an imitation of Prowl’s fluttering a moment earlier. Then he laughed even harder at the look on Prowl’s face. “He’s pretty nice to look at, I’ll give you that.”

The scowl on Prowl’s face softened, then a small smile flashed across it. “He is very engaging to speak with,” he said. He turned his helm to look across the field at the Polyhexian. The General was standing near where his troops were entering the camp, speaking to his lieutenants. “Jazz has a quick processor, and a delightful sense of humour. He made my brief stay in Polyhex quite enjoyable.” Prowl looked away again and scanned the rest of the camp. “I just wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

Bluestreak’s smile faded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “With the reports from the Vosians, along with what our own scouts are saying... It’s not looking good,” he said. “We’re going to need every last fighting-capable mech if we’re even going to have a chance.” Bluestreak looked at Prowl for a moment, considering something that had been bouncing around inside his processor for a cycle or two. “I thought... Maybe Fireblade...”

“No,” Prowl said flatly. “It’s bad enough that the Temple guards deserted me as soon as I indicated we were returning to Iacon. I don’t want to deal with another disobedient noble on top of everything else.”

Bluestreak’s door wings flared outwards. “Prowl, what good is it leaving him in the dungeon if we all end up being deactivated anyway?” he asked sharply. When Prowl frowned at him, he added, “He’s repentant. He apologized to me. He heard what Barricade said and he’s horrified by it.” Bluestreak took a step towards his brother, his tone insistent. “Let him fight with us. We need everyone who can help us.”

Prowl flicked his door wings twice before letting them fall slightly. “All right. I will speak to your Prime. After all, you are the injured party.” He looked at Bluestreak sternly. “But if he even **thinks** about lifting a digit against you...”

“I really don’t think he will,” Bluestreak said, remembering his conversation with the noble in the dungeon. “We’ve come to something of an agreement.”

* * *

The plan was set. The strategy was decided. The supplies were ready. In the morning, the combined armies would make their way to the Plurex Flats. The terrain there would force Nyon’s horde into something of a funnel, allowing the smaller army to face it in a more controlled manner. Ballistics and other ranged weapons could be showered on the horde from the rise at the eastern edge of the Flats, while the Vosians and other aerials could bomb them from above. Any cursed mechs that escaped being shot or bombed would be dealt with as they climbed the rise onto the plateau.

It still sounded like suicide to Bluestreak.

Ironhide and Ultra Magnus had told the Rangers and Guards to take the afternoon and evening to rest and relax. “I know you’re all keyed up,” Ironhide had said. “Take today and tonight. Do something you enjoy. Take your mind off of what we’re facing. Take tonight and live. Just be here in the morning, fueled up and ready to roll.”

Of course, with all of the Rangers and Guards being given the night off, Maccadams filled up quickly. All ten of the pub’s rooms were booked before Bluestreak and Hound even arrived there. 

Bluestreak and Hound exited the pub and stood outside for a klik, watching mechs stream into the building. “I guess maybe we could go find someplace in the camp?” Bluestreak asked. “Maybe Prowl would give us a groon or so in his tent.” He tried not to think about how awkward that conversation would be.

Hound straightened, and his optics brightened. “No, wait! I’ve got an idea,” he said, a grin on his face. “Wait here. I’ll be right back!” He transformed and sped off towards the citadel.

Bluestreak chuckled and leaned against the wall while he waited. He mostly just wanted to spend time with Hound, reveling in his company. Interfacing would be nice, but it wasn’t necessary. 

He shifted slightly, twitching a door wing. Then again, who knew when they would be able to spend time together ever again? What if...

Shutting down that processor thread, Bluestreak shook his helm. _Don’t think about that now. Remember what Ironhide said. Take tonight and just live._

Hound roared back up to Bluestreak. Still in his alt mode, he said, “All right, follow me!”

Bluestreak transformed and drove behind Hound. The green mech led him out of the city, through the camp of allies, and down a road leading north. 

They drove in silence for almost a groon until the sun was low on the horizon. Bluestreak grew more and more curious, but resisted asking Hound where they were going. The green mech had seemed intent on a destination, and Bluestreak was content to simply follow where he led. 

The terrain around them changed into thick crystal groves, and Hound slowed as he turned off the road and made his way between the large crystals. Finally, Hound stopped and transformed into root mode. “Here we are,” he said brightly.

Curious, Bluestreak called up a map and saw they were in the Prime’s Reserve. He transformed and looked around the grove they stood in. It looked familiar. He felt a smile creep onto his lips as he realized where they must be. “This is... This is where we met, isn’t it?” he asked.

“The very place!” Hound reached into his compartments and brought out two of the recharge pads that they used when they were on patrol. “We should have privacy here, and I went to grab some pads so we could be comfortable. I figured that –“

Hound’s words were cut off as Bluestreak swept him into an embrace and kissed him deeply. Bluestreak felt Hound melt into the kiss, his hands resting on Bluestreak’s chest armor. After a klik, Bluestreak released Hound’s lips and looked at him, smiling. “You looked so serious when we first met,” Bluestreak said. “I never would have thought you were a hopeless romantic.”

Hound laughed. “It’s possible to be a hopeless romantic and serious about your duty at the same time,” he said. He nuzzled one of the vents on the side of Bluestreak’s helm. “I’d caught an armed criminal, poaching stock from the Prime! How was I supposed to know you were a runaway prince who would be capable of reducing me to a melted puddle with just your hands and lips?”

“Like this?” Bluestreak asked with a smile, and put action to his words.

The two mechs moved gradually from standing, to kneeling, to laying on the mats. Bluestreak’s hands and lips trailed over the familiar corners and planes of Hound’s frame, while the green mech alternated between dipping his digits in the seams that he knew would draw gasps from Bluestreak, and arching into Bluestreak’s gentle touches.

Usually, their interfacing was a thing of power with a slight feral edge: Hound craved rough touches and a firm grasp, while Bluestreak loved feeling Hound submit willingly to his digits, lips and spike. But this time was different. Each of them seemed to want to draw out the encounter for as long as possible, taking the time to burn the sensory data into their memories. Each lick and caress and nibble was savoured. The smell of each other’s fluids, the sound of their plating scraping against the other, the taste of each other’s frames... It was all treasured and memorized. 

The charge between them was slow to rise that night, and they were content to let it grow and ebb and grow again. But it did gradually increase, until Bluestreak buried his face in the cords of Hound’s neck and moaned as the green mech’s valve clenched down on his spike. He might have uttered Hound’s designation, or it just might have been a wordless cry as his overload cascaded through his frame.

There was no discussion, but they each knew what the other needed. Hound’s chest plates parted first, and Bluestreak’s opened a moment later. His silvery-white spark reached out towards the blue of Hound’s, and as their arcing leaders made contact Bluestreak felt himself falling into everything that was his lover.

The world spun suddenly, and he was looking upwards. The red and grey mech above him looked down at him, the cobalt light from his optics gleaming in the darkness. Door wings fluttered above him as the mech shuddered through another weak overload as the merge deepened.

Soaring into the darkness above the mech that clung to his frame were tall crystal spires, reaching into the night sky. The crystals reflected the light of the stars, refracting the faint light into a kaleidoscope of colours.

And far above the crystals, the stars winked and twinkled in the blackness of the Iaconian night. Hound gazed up at the constellations he had known for almost his whole existence, and felt the familiar calm and peace wash over him. 

This was his cathedral.

A blaze of affection and love brought his attention back to the Praxian who was looking down at him with an adoration that humbled him to his core, and he let himself be consumed again by the merge. Hound was Bluestreak was Hound and their presences danced around each other, reveling in the closeness and intimacy, until...

...until they pulled themselves slightly apart, regretfully, preventing a bond from forming. Then reassurances flowed through their merge from one to the other, that if they lived to see the other side of the battle to come that they would make this thing between them tangible and permanent, and both of their sparks pulsed together in joy.

The sensation reached its peak, and the charge spilled through their circuitry, tripping breakers and sending systems into reset. As his systems winked offline one by one, Bluestreak clung to the intangible presence against his spark that was Hound, trying to draw out the intimacy for one last moment.

In his last moment of consciousness before his processor rebooted, Bluetreak felt a now-familiar third presence wrap them both in a blanket of compassion and gentleness. But this time it was shot through with an undercurrent of apprehension.


	17. To Arms

From his perch atop a rise on the edge of the plateau, Bluestreak watched the lengthening shadows creep across the gathered camp. His optics traced the edges of the encampment, picking out the sentries patrolling the perimeter. He then returned his gaze to the distant horizon, watching for any glimmer of light in the growing darkness, or clouds of dust.

The aerial reconnaissance provided by the Vosians indicated that at their current speed, the Nyonese forces would reach the Plurex Flats by morning. But the Nyon army included air and ground frames that had been spotted doing their own scouting of the Iacon’s allied forces. Any sightings were to be reported to the command tent immediately.

Bluestreak shifted his grip on his rifle as he scanned the sky once more. 

The sensors on his door wings alerted him of the approaching mech before he even heard the crunch of pedes on gravel, giving him details on his stance, gait, and height. As the mech grew closer, Bluestreak turned his helm slightly. “I figured you’d be in the command tent, as the representative from Praxus,” he said.

Prowl stopped next to his brother and looked down at the camp below them. “I had nothing of value to add to the conversation,” he said. When Bluestreak tipped his door wings up questioningly, Prowl gave him a quick glance. “As the second creation, I was trained to be an administrator, not a soldier. If anyone should be in the command tent, it’s you.” He looked down at Bluestreak’s rifle pointedly.

Bluestreak ran a hand over the top of the rifle. “I was so proud when sire gave me this weapon,” he said quietly. “Graduating from the Academy with top honours... I felt like I’d finally made him proud.” He tipped his door wings upwards. “Smokey was always the one he doted on, which made sense since he’s the heir. And you excelled in your studies. You could pick up really complex things so much faster than I ever could.” Bluestreak gripped his rifle again in both hands. “Proving myself as a capable soldier was the only thing I **could** do.”

“You were very good,” Prowl said. “One of the best the Cavalry had had in hundreds of vorn.” His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood straight with his wings held precisely behind his shoulders. “When you left, the Cavalry had a very hard time finding another officer who was proficient enough in all the required skills to replace you.”

Bluestreak hefted the rifle in his hands slightly, then looked back to the horizon. “I enjoyed it, you know,” he said. “Learning about tactics and strategy, and how to use all of my sensors to the best of my ability when firing a weapon. And I **was** good at it. Feeling like you’re competent in something... It makes you hold your wings up higher.” 

“I can’t imagine that your proficiency has decreased since you left Praxus,” Prowl said. “The fact that you survived an attack from the Nyon mechs tells me that you’re just as good as you used to be.”

“I survived thanks to Sunstreaker,” Bluestreak said, his door wings dipping downwards again. The volume of his voice dropped. “It was my first real combat situation. It wasn’t... It wasn’t what I thought it would be. It was chaotic and messy and brutal and...” He shook his helm. “My combat protocols kicked in, and my training helped me react to the fight as it changed, but...” His engine revved slightly. “Those things don’t act like mechs. They were unpredictable. Feral. Relentless.” He looked at Prowl and his door wings fell completely. “We’re not going to survive this,” he said softly.

Prowl’s optics brightened in the dim light as he looked at Bluestreak. “Are you talking about the strategy?”

“I’m talking about all of it!” Bluestreak’s door wings snapped upwards once more as he gestured with a hand, taking in the camp below them. “They are planning as if we are going up against another real army, an army of mechs who act rationally and who feel pain and who can be scared. Those things... None of that applies to them!” He noticed the sentry on the next rise look their way, and he lowered his voice again. “And even if it was an army of rational mechs instead of a wave of... of monsters, we are going to be overrun. At the low end, they have three times our numbers. At the high end...” He shook his helm and glared to the west. “It’s going to be a slaughter,” he growled.

“Then why do you stay?” Bluestreak turned to look at Prowl again. His brother looked at him with a calm expression, then tipped a door wing upwards. “Why stay? Why not leave?” Prowl gestured at the camp. “If it’s hopeless, leave tonight. Head east, away from Nyon, and keep running.” Prowl lowered his hands. “I swear I will not tell anyone which way you’ve gone.”

Bluestreak looked down at the camp. He thought about Hound, about Sunsteaker and Sideswipe, and Knock Out, and all of the other Rangers. He thought about the Prime, and Ultra Magnus, and all of the people in Iacon City who he interacted with daily. He thought about the priests in the cathedral, and remembered the warmth that wrapped itself around his spark when he fell deeply into his meditation. “I swore an oath,” he said finally. “I swore to protect the innocent, and to uphold the light of Primus against the Unmaker.” A chill ran through his frame as he remembered reciting the oath in the cathedral. It seemed so long ago that he had spoken those words. “I swore to place my wits, my frame and my spark between the Unmaker and Cybertron.” He looked at Prowl and added, “I swore that I would deactivate before Cybertron fell.”

Quietly, Prowl said, “You also swore an oath when you became High Commander of the First Praxian Cavalry.” He crossed his arms under his front bumper and stared down at the camp. “You swore to help prepare Praxus for the return of Primus, and to defend it from outsiders, until the end of your days.” Prowl glanced at him. “You broke that oath the moment you left Praxus.”

“I know.” Bluestreak had spent a lot of time thinking about the first oath he had taken before agreeing to take the oath to the Prime and the Rangers. He tipped his helm to the side. “But if you no longer believe in the core of an oath... Can it still hold you?” Bluestreak shook his helm. “I don’t have the answer to that. So go ahead, call me an oath breaker. But I still believe that I have been called - called by Primus himself - to help stop this evil that’s coming for us. I feel that in my spark every time I enter the Iacon cathedral.” He raised his door wings and looked out over the camp. “So that’s what I’m going to do – I’m going stay, and try to help stop whatever this is... Even if I am deactivated in the process.”

Bluestreak was startled to hear a low laugh from Prowl. He turned to look at the other Praxian, and saw that Prowl was smiling at him. “Smokescreen might be the hot-headed passionate one, but you’ve always surpassed him in following where your convictions led you,” Prowl said. He put his hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder. “I’m still proud of you, and I’m sure Smokescreen would be, too.”

Flicking his door wings as a thought occurred to him, Bluestreak asked, “You’re not fighting, are you?”

Prowl shook his helm. “Hopefully not.” His smile widened, but Bluestreak could see the nervous cant to his door wings. “I took the same basic training we all did as youths, but I’ve spent very little time practicing my skills since then. No, I’ll have a weapon, but I will be in the command tent, with the Prime and other leaders.” 

“And with Jazz?” Bluestreak asked with a smirk, unable to resist the jab.

“Yes.” Prowl’s door wings fluttered slightly. “If battle is begun, he will help direct his forces. But he said that if it begins to go badly, he will need to join the fight to help rally his troops.”

Bluestreak said nothing in response. He wasn’t sure what he could say, except explain how certain he was that they would all end up using their weapons before the next cycle had ended.

* * *

The sun was just rising when Bluestreak visited the fuel tent to top up his tanks. As he entered the tent, he saw Perceptor sitting at a table in the back, having an animated conversation with a white and green mech with a large set of head fins. Arcane symbols were burned into the strange mech’s armor in in seemingly random patterns.

As Bluestreak picked up his fuel ration, Perceptor caught sight of him and frantically waved him over. “Bluestreak! This is the colleague I was telling you about! Wheeljack arrived with the Polyhexian army,” he said excitedly, gesturing at his companion. “You had very intimate contact with the cursed mechs. How long ago was that – one? two orbital cycles? Please let Wheeljack take a quick reading on you.” 

It took a huge effort for Bluestreak to not to flatten his door wings against his back. “Uh, yeah I guess you could it intimate? They bit me and tore into my lines, in a bunch of places. But the damage has all been repaired.”

Wheeljack had pulled out a metal disk about the size of his palm, and pointed at the seat across from him. “Repairs wouldn’t matter. It’s the energy left behind that I’m looking for,” he said. After Bluestreak had settled onto the bench, tilted his helm slightly, and his blue optics flashed as he examined Bluestreak’s frame. “Where was the worst damage?”

“Depends on what you call the worst,” Bluestreak said. He tipped up his right door wing. “They ripped open the leading edge of this wing with their dentae and claws. I had a patch on it for cycles to help it heal.” He tipped his helm to the side and pointed at his throat, where he had discovered his own energon pulsing out of his lines. “And they nicked my main fuel line here.”

With just a nod, Wheeljack held the disk up to Bluestreak’s throat and pressed the metal against his neck cords. “This’ll get hot, but just for an astrosecond,” Wheeljack said. “Don’t worry if you smell smoke.”

“Smoke?” Bluestreak asked worriedly. Sure enough, the disk had heated quickly, and it became uncomfortably hot. In his alarm he tried to pull away, but Wheeljack held his helm firmly. 

“Just a bit more... There!” Wheeljack pulled the disk away and held it in his hand, peering at it closely.

Bluestreak put a hand to his throat where his neck cords still felt overly warm. “So, uh... Have you guys figured out how to dispel the enchantment on those mechs?” he asked, rubbing his throat.

“Yes!” said Wheeljack excitedly, his head fins flashing blue.

“No,” said Perceptor dejectedly at the same time.

The two mechs looked at each other.

“Well, we have figured it out,” said Perceptor finally, his shoulders slumping. “But we don’t know how to make use if the information.”

“Only energy that originates with Primus can dispel an enchantment that’s powered by the Unmaker,” Wheeljack said, tracing a digit around on the disk’s surface. Seemingly satisfied by whatever he saw there, he put the disk away into his compartments. “But we’ve had absolutely zero progress at enchanting anything with that energy. We can’t even draw on it temporarily.” 

“And... Well, the only thing we know of that contains energy from Primus is the Matrix. The Prime has been very cooperative in our studies but...” Perceptor waved his hand around, encompassing the camp around them. “He’s a little busy right now.”

All three of them froze when they heard a horn blare outside of the tent, and shouts. His door wings shooting up over his shoulders, Bluestreak said, “Nyon. They’re here.” He knocked back the cube of fuel he was still holding, grabbed his rifle, and ran outside.

Mechs were running everywhere, making for the posts they had been assigned. Bluestreak ran up the hill. His optics first focused on the command tent. Skids emerged from it with the Prime and the other leaders, where they had been discussing strategy. Prowl ducked out of the tent, followed by Jazz. All of them were focused on the horizon.

When Bluestreak reached the top of the ridge, he looked to the west. A huge mass of mostly grey mechs was marching towards them over the plains, surrounded by mechs rolling along slowly in their alt modes. 

Knock Out came to stand next to Bluestreak. “Why aren’t they all in their alt modes?” he asked.

“Those cursed things... Perceptor told me that they can’t actually transform,” Bluestreak said as the two mechs ran down the other side of the hill to take up their positions. “Which means they’ve got both cursed and... living mechs.” Bluestreak suppressed a shudder.

“Stand ready!” Ironhide shouted to the Rangers. The other commanders sent similar commands to their forces. “Let them come to us!”

The Nyon horde stopped about three kilometers away, out of range of most of the Iacon army’s artillery. Bluestreak could see no banners, no support mechs, no supply carriers in the distant army. It was as if they were an entire army of drones who needed neither fuel nor repairs.

A group of five mechs in their alt modes broke away from the main Nyon army, driving forward at a faster clip. They soon came to a stop about half a kilometer away from the edge of the Iacon army, and a purple mech hopped down from the middle truck that he had been riding on. An amplified voice called, “I wish to speak to the Prime.”

“Let him through,” said the Prime. Uneasily, the Rangers standing between the edge of the Iacon army and the Prime shifted to form a path for the purple mech to walk.

Bluestreak tightened his grip on his rifle as the purple mech approached his position. The mech was tall and broad-chested, and had a hexagonal helm with a single red optic glowing within. A black cape fluttered behind him in the slight breeze that had picked up with the rise of the sun. He recognized the mech as Chancellor Shockwave from Hound’s brief description and flashes of memory. Bluestreak glanced across the field to where Hound was standing, and saw the green mech’s posture had stiffened, his optics fixed on the leader of Nyon.

As the Chancellor walked past Bluestreak, he suddenly realized the sensors on his door wings were not picking up the mech. There was a vague shimmer where ordinarily he would sense movement, temperature, an electromagnetic field, and other indicators. 

This was not Shockwave; this was an apparition of some kind. If it was an enchantment, Bluestreak had never seen anything like it.

Bluestreak glanced up the hill towards Prowl and caught his brother’s optics. He waggled his door wings slightly and shrugged. Prowl frowned and tilted his helm, then looked back to Shockwave and spread his door wings wide. After a moment his optics widened and he whispered something to the Prime. The Prime nodded, but kept his gaze fixed on the approaching mech.

“This is quite the greeting you have prepared for me, Optimus Prime,” said Shockwave. He stopped several meters away from the command tent, and gestured out at the army gathered around.

“What do you want, Chancellor Shockwave?” the Prime asked.

“Just to talk,” Shockwave said lightly.

“The time for talking has passed,” said the Prime. “We have made overtures to your country for years, bringing up the concerns of the mechs who fled your borders. We were rebuffed, over and over, until it became clear that you were not interested in changing how you treated your citizens.” The Prime’s voice had taken on the deep, reverberating quality that Bluestreak remembered from when he was speaking to the Praxian delegation. “The time for talking was over the moment your creations made incursions across Iacon’s borders, and those of Praxus and Polyhex and Tarn and Vos, and began killing our citizens. It was over when you invaded Vos and began making your way to their capital.”

“Marching upon Vos was an error,” Shockwave said. He turned his single optic towards Thundercracker and shrugged. “And I am glad that I discovered my error before turning my sights towards Praxus.” He looked at Prowl. “For ages unending it has been assumed that Primus would be found in a Vosian... Or, if you were from Praxus, in a Praxian.” He laughed quietly. “Who knew that the power granted by Primus could be found not in Vos, nor Praxus, but in Iacon? And that it would manifest in an item that could be held by a single mech?”

Bluestreak shivered as he remembered the cursed mech stretching towards the Prime, hissing the designation of the Unmaker. 

“I do not have the power to command Primus’s power,” the Prime said.

“No,” Shockwave agreed. “But you do have his relic. And that is what I am here for.”

Not removing his optics from Shockwave for a moment, the Prime asked, “What would you do with the Matrix?”

“Why, I would do what I have been planning to do all along. I would save Cybertron, of course.” 

There was a shifting ripple through the soldiers closest to the discussion. “Save Cybertron?” the Prime asked, his scepticism clear in his tone. His optics narrowed. “Your creations have done nothing but slaughter innocent mechs, dismembering their frames and consuming their energon,” he said. “And you expect us to believe that this is all part of a plan to save Cybertron?” The Prime crossed his arms across his windshield. “Save it from what?”

“The planet is slowly dying around us, Prime,” Shockwave said. He gestured around, then focused on Deadlock. “Those in Tarn know about it all too well. Their energon mines have failed, and then a poor energon harvest last season left them in dire straits.” He looked at Prowl next. “Praxus is slowly falling to the same problem: not enough energon to keep its people in fuel or its society running.” Shockwave turned back to the Prime. “These are but two examples. All across Cybertron, the same story is being told over and over. Helex hasn’t had a successful harvest in three vorn. Thetacon has been almost abandoned, its citizens fleeing elsewhere to find fuel.”

“I am aware of the hardships being felt across Cybertron,” the Prime said. “But that hardly means the planet is dying.”

Impatiently, Shockwave said, “Open your optics, Prime! The shortage of energon is just one of the symptoms. The winds on the Rust Sea have stilled. The Sonic Canyons have been silent for a vorn. The caverns beneath the Pious Pools have collapsed. There is a pattern in all that has happened that spells disaster for Cybertron.” He held out his hand. “Give me the Matrix, and I can remake this world.”

There was a pause. Then the Prime said, incredulously, “You mean to reformat Cybertron?” 

Standing behind the Prime, Wheeljack and Perceptor suddenly looked at each other with expressions of alarm on their faces. 

When Shockwave nodded his helm once, the Prime shook his. “No. I cannot allow this. Reformatting would mean killing every living thing on this planet!”

“Not all,” said Shockwave, sounding pleased. “Not those who control the power of Primus and Unicron.” He tilted his helm, still holding out his hand. “Work with me, Prime, and you and I can reshape the new Cybertron together. Work with me, and you will survive to see the first dawn on the surface of a planet reborn.”

“I will not hand over the Matrix to let you kill everyone and everything on the planet!” the Prime exclaimed. 

The energon in Bluestreak’s lines ran cold as the Chancellor’s words conjured up the memory of High Priest Barricade’s interrogation. The black mech had said that the Praxian Temple had been working towards inviting the Unmaker to Cybertron to destroy it, so that Primus would grace the world with his presence to remake it. It sounded eerily similar to what Shockwave was planning to do.

“Don’t think about it as killing,” Shockwave said. “It’s more of putting them out of their misery before the planet dies completely around them.”

“You are insane,” said the Prime.

“Genius is sometimes mistaken for insanity,” Shockwave said. He lowered his hand. “If you will not give me the power of Primus, then I will take it.” Looking around at the few thousand mechs that stood in silence around him, Shockwave added, “My forces outnumber you fifty to one. My minions have gathered more than enough fuel to destroy you **and** to fulfill my plans.” He shrugged. “You do not stand a chance.”

The Prime shook his helm. “We will not simply stand by and let you destroy the planet.” He lifted his voice so that it would carry to the very edges of the gathered army. “We will fight to the last mech to protect our lands and our people from your evil plans.”

Shockwave looked at the Prime for a long moment before turning away. As he walked slowly back down the hill, he said, “So be it. I offered you life, Prime, and a chance to help me create a new world. Now... I will give you death.”

After a few steps, the purple mech’s form wavered as if seen through a haze of heat, and then he vanished from sight.

A startled murmuring swept through the Rangers and other allies who had made a path for the Chancellor. “Where the frag did he go?” Knock Out asked, glancing around as if to find the violet mech hiding in their ranks somewhere.

“He was never there. He wasn’t showing up on my sensors,” Bluestreak said, tipping his door wings upwards.

Shouts of alarm drew their attention back to the army across the Flats from them. The five mechs who had accompanied the apparition of Shockwave had transformed into their root modes, and now they were transforming again. They were reforming themselves, and merging...

“Frag,” Knock Out said quietly. Bluestreak looked at the Velocitronian, startled by the naked fear in his tone. “A combiner. I never thought I’d see one.”

Bluestreak looked back at the Flats, and his optics widened as he saw the huge mech take shape. He’d heard about combiners in the Academy, but they were always spoken of as legends or myths, stories of knowledge lost to the sands of time. They were never considered to be something that modern mechs would ever need to face in combat. 

The combiner stood, lifting his horned helm and fixing the gathered army with a scowl. “Menasor crush! Destroy!” he bellowed, and lumbered forward towards the army of Iacon and its allies. 

Bluestreak’s audials were assaulted by shouted orders. General Jazz ordered his artillery forward, and Thundercracker shouted at his seekers to take wing. “Take out the legs, then pick apart the rest!” he shouted.

“Rangers! Guards! Infantry! To arms! Be ready!” Ironhide called. 

Bluestreak ran to his position on the ridge. A tight formation of seekers roared overhead, firing on the legs of the combiner as he barreled into the front lines of the Iacon forces. A huge hand swept through the mechs there, and he grabbed two in one hand. They screamed as he crushed them in his gigantic digits.

The combiner Menasor roared in pain as one of the Vosian seekers landed a shot on his knee, and the seekers swept around for another pass. He staggered as a round from a Polyhexian tank slammed into his other leg.

At another shout from further down the ridge, Bluestreak looked past the creature that he’d only known from stories and folk lore to see that the horde of alive and dead mechs that made up the Nyonese army had charged forward. “Rangers, look to the west!” he called, his battle protocols spinning up as he lifted his rifle to his shoulder. 

“Fight for the Prime! Fight for Cybertron!” Ironhide called, echoing the cries of the other leaders as they readied their troops.

And then the wave of cursed mechs crashed into the Iacon army.

Shouts and screams were drowned out by the roar of seeker and aerial engines overhead, and the crash of artillery firing. Shells landed with flashes of light and the thunder of explosions on the undulating carpet of greyed mechs that streamed past the Nyonese combiner’s feet. 

Bluestreak’s processor slipped into its battle state. His optics scanned the seething mess of cursed and live mechs below him, picking out his next target. He adjusted his aim using the data from his targeting sensors, and his digit pulled back on the trigger, felling a cursed mech. Repetitively, Bluestreak ran the same loop, over and over. Target, aim, fire. Target, aim, fire.

A greyed mech latched itself on a Polyhexian soldier, biting at his neck cords as he scrabbled at it with his hands. Bluestreak targeted, aimed, fired. The greyed mech fell from the Polyhexian’s back.

A Tarnish swordsmech was bowled over just as he decapitated a cursed mech with his blade, falling to the ground under the weight of three more. Bluestreak targeted, aimed, fired, again and again. As the cursed mechs released their hold on him, the swordsmech rose unsteadily to face the next adversary.

Ten howling mechs clambered atop a Vosian tankformer’s alt mode, pulling and peeling at his plating with their claws. His turret spun as he tried to dislodge the two that were gnawing on his weapons bore, and energon leaked from the gashes they tore in his armor. Bluestreak targeted, aimed, fired, over and over, blowing their helms open one by one until the tankformer could move freely again to aim at the combiner’s legs.

A roar rose from the allied mechs suddenly as one of the combiner’s legs separated at the hip, and he listed to the side... Then slowly toppled over. Cheers came as the combiner’s limbs were broken apart, and picked off one by one by the gunners on the ridge.

But the victory did not last long, as cursed mechs crawled over the combiner’s parts and threw themselves at the allied troops.

There were so many.

Target, aim, fire. Target, aim, fire. 

Bluestreak emptied one power clip, then a second. Frames piled up as the swarm cascaded over the mechs on the front line. Deactivated mechs lay in red dust that was slowly becoming damp and sticky with energon. Bluestreak ejected the third power clip and jammed his fourth into his rifle, bringing it back up to his shoulder.

Still the cursed mechs came, like an oozing infection spreading over its host. 

Bluestreak’s chronometer paused as his systems diverted more power to his battle systems, so he had no idea how much time had passed. It may have been a few kliks or several groons when he heard an explosion overhead, and the scream of an incoming projectile.

Throwing himself to the ground, Bluestreak covered his helm just before something fell from the sky and impacted the ground just a few meters away. The sound of the crash seared his audials, and he felt a wave of heat as the projectile exploded. Rocks and shards of metal showered down on Bluestreak in an avalanche of debris.

Someone was shaking him. Had he fallen offline? He looked up and saw Knock Out yelling something at him. Bluestreak frowned in confusion; all he could hear was a ringing sound. He reset his audials, banging on the side of his helm, trying to get his sensors to recalibrate quicker. As the sounds of the battle came back to him, he yelled back “What?” 

Knock Out shook his helm and patted his shoulder. “You’re fine.” The red mech turned and shouted up the ridge towards the command tent. “They’re targeting our seekers!” he yelled. 

Jazz’s command echoed back down to the Polyhexian artillery. “Artillery, forward. Target their tanks! Infantry, hold the line!” 

Bluestreak crawled back into his position on the hill, and tried to reinitialize his targeting routines. But one look down at the battle below him made his engine stall. Frames were littered everywhere, stacked haphazardly. The Iaconian army and their allies had begun fighting in a more desperate fashion, holding onto what ground they could against an enemy that simply would not stop coming.

Directly below him, Bluestreak saw a flash of red and gold. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker fought back-to-back, blades in their hands. They moved as if one mech, leaping one way towards a Ranger who needed help, running the other way to free a Tarnish warrior from the clutches of a mech who was trying to rip his throat open. Their blades flickered, slashing and stabbing, a two-mech dervish of destruction.

To one side, Hound fought alongside Lord Fireblade. They were not as coordinated as the twins, but Hound’s sidearm fired over and over, taking down cursed mechs that ran towards them as Fireblade’s sword made short work of the mechs who got past Hound.

Bluestreak ripped his optics away from his lover as he finally got his targeting routines back online. There were others on the battlefield who needed his support. He shouldered his rifle and found a target. He aimed. He fired.

As he reached the end of his fourth power clip, he realized he was on his last one. “I need a fresh clip!” he yelled as shoved his fifth and last clip into his rifle. He tried not to think about the fact that each clip was good for five hundred shots, and that his two thousand shots had not made any apparent dent in the waves of cursed mechs that were still scuttling over the mounds of dead to launch themselves at the Iacon army. Blurr materialized at his side with two fresh clips, then the fast mech vanished again, racing off to his next delivery. 

Target, aim, fire. Target, aim, fire. 

As he scanned for targets, Bluestreak realized that they were losing ground. Slowly, the Iacon army was being pushed back, their line retreating up the hill as they struggled not to crumble under the relentless onslaught. Bluestreak peeled his optics away from the battle and saw the Nyon tanks were far closer than they had been. A few were missing, but not enough. They fired continually, using their firepower to keep the Vosian seekers from doing low passes over the horde.

The allied forces were being overrun.

Ironhide drove along the top of the ridge, shouting to rally his Rangers. “Hold the line! Hold it for Cybertron!” Further down the ridge, Bluestreak heard Jazz relating a similar order to his troops.

Bluestreak heard an explosion overhead, and an all-too-familiar scream as another seeker was hit by an artillery shell. He quickly looked up and found the seeker as it tumbled towards the ground, spinning out of control and shooting flames from a wing. He watched until he saw that its trajectory would take it past him, and it would fall –

Suddenly realizing where the seeker would crash, Bluestreak turned and yelled up the ridge. “Prowl!” he screamed, the designation ripping his vocalizer’s limits as he desperately tried to be heard over the din of the battle.

Time seemed to slow down.

Prowl looked down from the ridge. He stood by the command tent, near the Prime and Ultra Magnus. The Praxian tilted his helm as he saw Bluestreak reaching towards him with a hand.

Thundercracker looked up and saw the disabled seeker plummeting towards them. He grabbed the mech closest to him and fired his heel thrusters, launching himself backwards away from the tent with Skids in his arms.

The seeker fell to the ground.

The command tent and the mechs that stood in front of it vanished in an eruption of flame and debris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will notice that I added a final chapter count! That's right, I am getting really close to completing my draft, and it's working out to 20 chapters. 
> 
> Also, this chapter and the next are quite a bit longer than the ones that have come previously, so hopefully that'll tide you over until I can get the rest of this finished. Almost there! ^.^


	18. The Call

“Prowl!” Bluestreak scrambled up the ridge even as chunks of rock and metal fell around him. “Prowl!” he screamed.

Thundercracker landed at the edge of the smouldering crater, having jetted away at the last moment before the impact. He set down Skids, and the two of them ran to a jumble of red and blue metal at the edge of the impact zone.

Bluestreak ran past them, his optics scanning the debris until he saw a scorched white frame lying several meters away. He ran to it and slid to a stop, falling to his knees next to Prowl’s frame. His brother’s optics were offline, and his frame was still and silent. “Prowl?” he whispered, his hands hovering over Prowl’s frame uncertainly. 

When Prowl’s optics flickered back online, Bluestreak couldn’t stop the small whimper of relief from escaping his vocalizer. “Silverstre-?” Prowl asked faintly, his vocalizer cutting out before he could finish speaking. He squinted, peering up at Bluestreak with a look of confusion. His engine coughed as it turned over. “How? You were deactivated. You –“

“It’s all right, I’m here. I’m here now,” Bluestreak said, desperately hoping there hadn’t been any lasting damage to Prowl’s processor. He ran his hands and optics over Prowl’s armor looking for major injuries. The Praxian’s armor was dented across his back and side, and one of his door wings had been wrenched almost completely off. A gash in his side had a chunk of metal embedded in it, and energon flowed freely from the wound.

Bluestreak slapped a hand over the tear in Prowl’s plating and looked around frantically. “I need a medic!” he yelled.

He saw Ratchet first. The medic was bent over the red frame that Thundercracker and Skids had run to. Ratchet looked up and said something to Knock Out, who stood nearby, his optics fixed on whatever Ratchet was working on. Reacting to whatever Ratchet had said, Knock Out looked over to Bluestreak, nodded, and began running towards him. 

One of Prowl’s Royal Guards, who had also been thrown by the blast, limped up and dropped next to the Prince. “Your Highness,” he croaked.

“I’ve got a medic coming,” Bluestreak said, not caring whether the Guard had been speaking to Prowl or him. He looked up as Knock Out knelt next to Prowl, pulling a repair kit from his compartments.

“That’s a nasty one,” Knock Out said as he examined the wound in Prowl’s side. He pulled the shard of metal out of the hole and shoved some gauze into it while he prepared a bandage. “One of his main lines is cut. I’ll have to clamp it or else he’ll bleed out. It’s probably going to hurt,” he said, glancing up at Bluestreak. 

Bluestreak nodded, understanding Knock Out’s unasked request. “Do you know where you are, Prowl?” Bluestreak asked, tipping Prowl’s helm towards him so the white mech was focused on him and not Knock Out.

Prowl’s optics looked up at Bluestreak, slightly unfocused. He winced as there was another explosion a short distance away down the ridge. His optics flickered slightly, and he nodded. “Iacon,” he said, his vocalizer steadier than it had been a moment before. “Fighting Nyon.”

Bluestreak looked up as another mech roared towards them and transformed, sliding in next to Bluestreak on his knees. “How is he?” Jazz asked, looking down at the other Praxian.

“He was offline for a klik, and seemed a little confused when he came back online” Bluestreak said. He looked back down at his brother and ran a hand down the side of his helm. “What’s your designation and title?” 

“I... I am Prince Prowl, second creation of King Cygnus of Praxus, Seneschal of Praxus and Marshall of the High Court, second in line to the Quartz Throne.” Prowl looked up at Bluestreak and frowned. “Is that... Is that right?”

Bluestreak smiled and nodded, doing his best to distract Prowl as Knock Out finished cleaning the bits of rock and metal out of Prowl’s side. “Yes, it is. And who am I?”

“You are...” Prowl winced again, this time as Knock Out twisted something under his plating. “You are my brother, Prince Silverstreak.” He blinked and his optics flickered again. “No. You’re Bluestreak. My brother.” Prowl smiled. “A Ranger of Iacon.”

Leaning down as a relieved laugh spilled from his lips, Bluestreak bumped his chevron against Prowl’s. “Yes. Exactly right.”

“All done, or as best I can do out here,” Knock Out said, sitting up. He packed his kit away again and wiped his energon-covered hands on his thighs. “I gave you a pain block, but you need to stay put until we can get you someplace where we can actually fix the tear,” he said. “All I was able to do was a quick patch.”

Prowl nodded and winced as he tried to shift his weight. “I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere soon,” he said weakly. 

Another explosion came from down the hill, followed by a fuel-chilling scream. “Stay with him,” Bluestreak told the Guard, who nodded. He stood, grabbed his rifle, and took a step towards the group who was gathered around the crater further up the ridge. Ratchet was still on his knees, his attention focused on his work. Thundercracker was speaking urgently to Skids. The Praxian listened to him intently before pointing down the ridge and then down to the battlefield. The Vosian nodded once, then launched himself into the air. 

“It’s the Prime,” Knock Out said. “It looked like he and Ultra Magnus took the brunt of the explosion.” He looked the other way, down towards the Polyhexian line, and said, “I’ve got more mechs to see to.” Knock Out transformed, driving quickly down the ridge towards another mech who had pulled himself up the hill, away from the battle.

Bluestreak took another step towards the group gathered around the Prime, but Jazz put his hand on his arm. “All you’ll be doin’ is watchin’,” Jazz said. He pointed at Bluestreak’s rifle. “You’re a slaggin’ good shot, soldier. Get yerself back into position and help us keep these monsters back.”

Bluestreak stared at Jazz for a moment, defiance rising in his processor, before he realized that the Polyhexian was right. “Yes, sir,” he said, snapping a nod and dipping his door wings in acquiescence. With one more look at his brother curled in the gravel atop the ridge, Bluestreak ran to the edge of the hill again.

The battle had changed once more. The Nyonese artillery had moved even closer, and was now alternating between picking seekers out of the air and blowing holes in the Iacon army’s lines, seemingly indiscriminately. The front line was being held tenuously, but Bluestreak could see that in the few kliks he’d been at Prowl’s side, the allied forces had been pushed back several meters.

Bluestreak could make out the places where the line had been held for some time. Stacks of frames, both of allies and enemies, had fallen in drifts on the ground. The fallen frames created dunes of dead bodies that the cursed mechs clambered over to reach the live mechs fighting on the other side. As Bluestreak scanned the battlefield, he saw in disgust that some of the cursed mechs hunched over the bodies of the fallen, and were sucking the energon from their lines. 

He gritted his dentae and peeled his optics away from those horrors. He needed to focus on mechs who could use his help... Not those who were too far gone to be saved.

There was a boom overhead. Another seeker fell from the sky. Bluestreak saw its trajectory change at the last moment as the seeker sought, in his last desperate moments alive, to do as much damage to the enemy as possible. The seeker careened into the cursed mechs, cratering himself into the seething mass in a blaze of flame. But after a moment, the scar the explosion had created in the grey carpet filled in with more cursed mechs that scuttled forward towards the allied forces.

Bluestreak realized they weren’t going to be able to hold the hill for much longer. And once the hill fell...

Ironhide roared up behind him and transformed before yelling down to the Rangers on the field below. “Protect our artillery! Hold the line!” He turned to Bluestreak. “The Prime still functions, Ranger,” he said firmly. “We fight on.”

Bluestreak nodded and dropped into his firing position. He scanned the battlefield and found a Polyhexian tank that was struggling to move beneath the weight of the cursed mechs on top of it.

Target. Aim. Fire.

The blare of a siren sounded from behind the Nyon lines. It must have been some kind of signal, since the cursed mechs surged forward. Allied mechs yelled, exhausted from the numbers they had already faced, screaming for assistance. 

Everyone needed assistance.

Bluestreak’s hands shook as he aimed and fired. This was it. They were lost.

The allied line shifted... Then flexed... Then broke.

With a guttural howl torn from ten thousand vocalizers, the cursed mechs swept through the front line and clambered up the hill.

Bluestreak and the other gunners on the top of the hill fired over and over. As the first of the greyed mechs drew near, Bluestreak fired at point blank range, once, twice, three times, four, before the fifth grey mech launched itself at him before he could get a shot off. The cold frame slammed into him and knocked him backward.

Landing hard on his back, Bluestreak dropped his rifle and pushed at the mech that was crushing him to the ground. The cursed mech with the dead optics snarled, clawing at his plating and snapping its dentae at Bluestreak’s throat. 

Bluestreak struggled to push the mech off of him, tried to bring his pedes and knees up to shove the mech away, but it clung to him tenaciously, its dentae getting closer and closer to Bluestreak’s main fuel line. He gripped the mech’s shoulders and tried to lock his elbows to keep the mech’s mouth away from him, but the mech was stronger. He closed his optics, waiting for the feel of his main line being ripped open, and –

Thwack.

The mech atop him suddenly went still. Bluestreak opened his optics and looked up in disbelief. The mech’s headless frame went limp, and Bluestreak shoved it aside. He looked around wildly.

Lord Fireblade held out a hand. “Sir,” he said. 

Bluestreak hesitated for only a moment. He grabbed Fireblade’s hand and allowed him to haul him to his pedes. Then the other Praxian whirled, his blade flashing as he decapitated another mech that had just crested the hill behind him. 

“Blue!” Hound ran up, bending to pick up Bluestreak’s rifle where it had fallen. “Are you –“

“I’m all right,” Bluestreak said, taking his rifle from Hound. He scanned Hound’s frame, taking in the gouges in the green mech’s armor. “You –“

Hound’s optics widened, and he fired his sidearm over Bluestreak’s shoulder. A grey mech fell to the ground next to Bluestreak. Hound fired again, then turned to pull a mech off of Fireblade’s back.

There was no time for reunions. Bluestreak brought his rifle to his shoulder and began to fire again, doing whatever he could to slow the torrent of grey mechs running up the hill. Bluestreak, Hound and Fireblade fought in a tight circle for a klik, the three of them keeping a ragged ring around them clear of grey mechs. 

It was only a matter of time before something got past one of them, and all three of them would fall.

Suddenly, the melody of a horn broke through the sounds of screams, artillery blasts, and blades ringing against armor. Bluestreak’s helm shot up at the first notes, recognizing the familiar call to ready weapons. 

It was a call he hadn’t heard in vorn.

The grey mechs wavered, a pause rippling through their ranks as if hesitation was something contagious. Lord Fireblade stood still for a moment, lifting his sword as he listened to the horn. He turned to Bluestreak with recognition lighting his optics. “Is that...”

Bluestreak looked north towards the sound of the horn, still not entirely willing to believe what he was hearing. Then, unmistakably, he heard the same horn trumpet the order to charge.

From the north, a sea of mechs roared over the rise. They slammed into the edge of the cursed mechs, cutting through them like an acetylene torch through steel. 

Bluestreak almost didn’t notice when Hound gripped his arm. “Who is that?” Hound asked, leaning on Bluestreak as they watched the fresh army blast its way through the enemy ranks. White diamond-shaped banners emblazoned with golden crystal spires whipped in the wind above the ordered lines in a formation that Bluestreak recognized well.

Blinking to clear the condensation from his optics, Bluestreak gripped Hound’s hand. “It’s Praxus,” he said, astonished at how steady his voice sounded despite the whirlwind of emotion he felt in his spark. “It’s the First Praxian Cavalry.”

A cheer rose from the allied forces as the cursed mechs wavered, turning as if one to face the new threat. The allied forces pressed forward again, their line reforming as the Nyon forces found themselves pinned between two walls.

As Fireblade and Hound made short work of the stragglers, Bluestreak refocused his attention on the grey mechs that continued to swamp the Polyhexian artillery. His targeting systems scanned and found enemies to shoot, while a part of his processor noted that the cursed mechs seemed almost confused. It was as if they were torn between continuing to run up the hill they had just stormed, and facing the Praxian army.

“They’re retreating!” came a shout from down the ridge. The call was repeated again, picking up volume, as the grey mechs turned and began scuttling back down the hill.

Bluestreak found himself shouting along with the other voices, his tone triumphant. He watched as the Praxian troops moved into an inverted wedge formation, pushing the Nyonese forces away from the exhausted Iacon army and back the way they had come.

“Rangers!” Ironhide skidded down the hill, his optics searching out and finding any of his mechs still upright. “This isn’t a time to celebrate. They might just be reforming. If you need fuel, ammunition or repairs, get up to the fuel tent now. Get ready for the next push! This isn’t over!” 

Bluestreak’s frame suddenly felt heavy. His chronometer came back online and he frowned, then looked up at the sun. Had they really been fighting for three straight groons?

Hound touched his shoulder, and Bluestreak turned to him. His optics went back to the wide gouge across Hound’s front and side. Dried energon caked it, and Bluestreak’s digits hovered over the wound. “You’re hurt,” he said.

“So are you,” Hound said, frowning. He touched a deep scrape on Bluestreak’s shoulder armor, and pulled his hand back as Bluestreak winced. “Sorry!”

Turning his helm, Bluestreak looked at the scrape. He had no idea where it had come from; maybe he had gotten it from the mech who had pinned him down. “I need some fuel, and fresh clips for my rifle,” he said, focusing on the orders they’d just been given. 

Nodding, Hound hooked his arm behind Bluestreak’s back, then looked at Fireblade. “You’re amazing with that sword, Lord Fireblade,” he said with a smile as they began making their way back up the hill towards the fuel tent.

Ducking his helm, Fireblade wiped his sword on his forearm and sheathed it in the scabbard. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “But I would not be here if it wasn’t for your ability with that weapon as well.” He looked at the sidearm Hound had holstered at his hip.

As they crested the hill, Bluestreak saw a cluster of mechs gathered near the fuel tent. Prowl had been moved, as had the Prime. Both mechs were sitting, the Prime leaning awkwardly to one side. Something seemed to be wrong with his frame, although Bluestreak thought it just might be the angle he was sitting at. Another large blue frame lay motionless next to them, and Ratchet hunched over it with a grim expression. Perceptor and Wheeljack knelt next to the Prime, intently discussing something with him as they made urgent gestures with their hands.

Bluestreak ran towards Prowl. His brother looked up as he approached, his optics already brighter than they had been earlier. “Prowl!” Bluestreak said, kneeling next to him. “Praxus came. The Cavalry just arrived, and they broke the Nyonese forces just as... Just as we....” As he spoke, the reality of the situation came crashing down on him and his vocalizer failed completely. He reset it and tried to speak, but still found his voice full of static.

“Praxus saved us all.” Thundercracker had been walking past and paused next to Prowl, ignoring the Royal Guard that bristled slightly at his approach. He looked down at the injured Praxian and smiled, thumping a fist against his chest armor in a salute to the Prince. “We are in your debt.”

With wide optics, Prowl looked up at the Vosian towering over him. Then he bowed his helm slightly. “All I did was send the message,” he said weakly. “Your debt is owed to whomever authorized the Cavalry to come.”

“It’s a slaggin’ good thing they came when they did,” said Jazz, arriving just behind Thundercracker. He turned to survey the forces coming up the hill to the relief tents scattered along the ridge.

Bluestreak turned and watched, frowning at the small numbers that seemed to be coming up the hill. He saw Windcharger appear, leaning heavily on Skids and limping on a leg that was sparking ominously. Blurr crested the hill next, walking far slower than Bluestreak had ever seen him move. A handful of other mechs bearing Ranger emblems on their shoulders straggled up the hill, all of them either obviously low on fuel, or damaged in some way. 

Then Bluestreak’s spark jumped when he saw a red and yellow frame come over the rise. Both twins were covered in streaks of energon, and their postures told tales of their fatigue. They leaned on each other, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. But Sunstreaker’s face was calm, his blue optics clear and bright, and Sideswipe smiled and waved when he saw the group gathered around Prowl.

But for having gone into battle with just over a hundred Rangers, very few were returning to the top of the hill.

“So few,” Bluestreak murmured. 

Hound knelt next to Bluestreak and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. “I don’t think we should start counting our losses... Not yet,” he said quietly. “I don’t think this is over.”

“What do you mean, detonate the Matrix?” The group of mechs turned to see Ratchet standing over the Prime. “Are you out of your slagging helms?”

“Let me hear them out, Ratchet,” the Prime said. His voice was weak, but he spoke calmly to the medic. Finally able to get a look at the Prime, Bluestreak was shocked to see that half of the Prime seemed to be missing: his right arm, side and leg had been blown away, and patchy welds were all that seemed to be holding his circuitry inside his frame.

“We’ve been taking readings the whole battle,” Perceptor said, waving a pad in the air. “The sheer amount of energy that was used to enchant the processors of the cursed mechs is staggering, but it can be dispelled if an equal amount of energy was used against it... Provided it is of the opposite frequency.”

“And the only thing we know of that has the opposite frequency, the only thing that holds power drawn from Primus, is the Matrix,” Wheeljack said. His head fins flashed a pale purple as he glanced at Perceptor. “If we had more time, we might be able to work out how to tap into that power, but...”

“But we’ve been working at it since… Well, before any of **this** ever started,” Perceptor said, waving his hand around. “The only repository we have at our disposal right now with that power is the Matrix.”

The Prime nodded calmly. “I understand,” he said. His optics focused on nothing for a long moment before he added, “I knew that this day would eventually come. This moment in time’s cycle has come around once more.”

“This is insanity,” Ratchet snapped. “First, you get half of your frame blown away in a blast that almost took out your second in command,” he said, gesturing at the frame of Ultra Magnus. “Now you expect me to remove a portion of your frame that you’ve had for hundreds of vorn so that they can blow it up?” His vocalizer’s tone rose to a more and more incredulous level as he spoke.

“How is Ultra Magnus?” the Prime asked calmly.

Ratchet huffed, then his shoulders sagged slightly. “I have him in medical stasis. I stopped the worst of the leaks, but I was afraid he’d suffered some processor damage in the explosion. Once I get back to a proper operating theatre I should be able to get him back up and running.” The medic shook a digit at the Prime in an imperious manner that made Bluestreak’s optics go wide. “You know that if he were online, he’d tell you the same thing that I am... This is insane!”

The Prime’s optics brightened slightly. “I know,” he said. “So I suppose it’s a blessing that he’s offline at this exact moment.”

Ratchet threw his hands in the air and stomped away, stopping to check on another Ranger that had been brought in, leaking energon from a rip in his arm plating.

Looking back up at Perceptor, the Prime asked, “Once the Matrix is removed from my frame, what needs to be done?”

Perceptor gestured to Wheeljack. The sorcerer sat up straighter and said, “Well, I can enchant it so that a single rifle blast will detonate it and disperse the energy farther than it would go if dispersed naturally.” He held up his hand with his palm laid out flat, and made a small gesture with his other hand. Suddenly, an image of the battlefield appeared, hovering over his palm. A field of tiny grey mechs were clustered in the middle near the bottom of the hill. “If the cursed mechs were brought together, and the Matrix was put in the middle of them, then detonated...” He waggled his digits again, and a burst of white light spread out from the middle of the gathered mechs. “The energy from the Matrix, drawn directly from Primus, would dispel the enchantment on the cursed mechs’ processors.” 

“We would just need someone to carry it in, open it, drop it, and then get far enough away before someone else detonated it with a rifle,” Perceptor said. 

Wheeljack nodded. “The enchantment that’ll let you blow it up packs quite a punch, so whoever shoots it will have to make sure the delivery mech is clear before they fire,” he said. “If I had more time I could maybe work out something a bit less destructive, but...”

Ironhide had been standing on the edge of the hill, scanning for any more Rangers coming up. “Time might be something we don’t have a lot of,” he called.

Bluestreak looked down the hill, and his fuel pump missed a beat at what he saw below them. As Hound came to stand next to him, he heard the green mech’s slight intake of air. “What are they doing?” he asked quietly.

The cursed mechs had been pushed away from the bottom of the hill by the Praxian Cavalry while the allied forces had pulled back to regroup. But instead of retreating further, they had swept into a circular formation. Bluestreak felt his spark lurch when he realized there were still tens of thousands of cursed mechs still functioning. They swirled around a center point, seemingly ignoring the press of the Praxians on their flank.

A voice boomed from the flats below the hill. Shockwave’s voice was amplified as if shouted by thousands of vocalizers all speaking in unison. “My patience grows thin, Prime.” Bluestreak refocused his vision on the eye of the circular formation that the Nyonese mechs spun around, and saw a purple figure standing in the very center, his arms raised to the sky. “I **will** have the Matrix. And if you will not give it to me, I call upon Unicron to take it for me!”

The hurricane of grey mechs compressed, becoming a dense eddy as they moved, before they began to climb atop each other. Mechs clambered up one another, each one seeking to reach higher into the sky, until they formed a tower of grey that undulated and grew even taller as more mechs climbed it. The tower rose, quickly obscuring the purple figure at the center from sight, until the column of mechs reached the height of the plateau where the allied forces watched in stunned silence.

The top of the column closed in on itself, creating a grotesque parody of a mech’s helm. Two curved horns formed at the side of the helm, and a face slowly took shape, all constructed from grey mechs that bit and clung and latched onto each other. A great mouth opened in the helm, and an echoing laugh boomed across the flats.

**“I have come again. I shall have what is mine. I shall have the Matrix.”**

“That’s what they needed all of that fuel for,” Perceptor whispered. Bluestreak turned to look at the alchemist, who was standing next to him, staring at the construct in horror. “They’re using all that fuel they were consuming as a component to link themselves into one being, and to channel… Oh, Primus.” His voice trailed off.

The construct’s body warped, and an arm that looked more like a tentacle formed from its side. With an almost casual movement, the construct whipped the tip of the tentacle through the Praxian Cavalry, sending mechs flying.

“You two said you had a plan to take care of this piece of slag?” Ironhide said, snapping all of the nearby mechs out of their silence and pointing at Perceptor and Wheeljack. “Because we’ve gotta finish this. Now.” His thumb jerked down towards the monstrosity on the flats below them.

A tight formation of seekers roared towards the weaving column of grey mechs. But as soon as they approached the construct, the Nyonese artillery opened fire. Their tanks had arranged themselves in a ring around the base of the construct as the monstrosity had formed, and they lit the air around it with a barrage of fire. The seekers broke off the attack, veering away from the shots that dotted the sky.

 **“I shall not be denied!”** thundered the construct.

“That voice… That’s not Shockwave,” said Hound quietly.

“No,” said the Prime, his weak voice drawing the Rangers’ attention. “That is Unicron. He has come again.” In the stunned silence that followed his words, the Prime shifted his weight, wincing in pain. “Ratchet, see to the removal of the Matrix from my frame,” the Prime said. There was a grinding noise as he attempted to shift his chest plates, but they stuck on the right side where his armor and chassis had been damaged. “Quickly. We do not have much time.”

Ratchet looked from the Prime to the construct that had just swept its tentacle through the Praxian troops again, then back to the Prime. He nodded. “All right,” he said, bending to the task. “Let’s get this over with.”

“So we need to get the Matrix into the heart of that thing?” Ironhide asked.

Wheeljack jerked his optics away from the construct and nodded. “Yeah. Well, as close as we can, anyway,” he said. He frowned. 

“Isn’t that the opposite of what we want to do?” Sideswipe asked. He was sitting on the ground drinking some fuel while Knock Out patched up a rip in his leg armor that was dripping energon. “He wants the Matrix, and we’re going to deliver it to him?”

“So long as it’s detonated before he… it… they? absorb the power inside it, it’ll be fine,” Wheeljack said. He knelt on the ground, digging items out of his compartments and laying them on the ground in front of him. Coloured stones, twisted bits of metal, and pots of gels were pulled out, and he put several to the side. “Now where did I put that balefire component…”

Down on the flats, the construct roared and began slowly crawling towards the hill that the allied forces stood on. The Praxian troops had pulled back, but were pelting it with artillery blasts. The construct paused in its movement to turn ponderously to face them. **“Begone, insects.”**

“All we need now is a plan,” Ironhide said, looking at Skids. “Quickly.”

Skids nodded and began sketching something out in the dirt at his pedes as Ironhide, Deadlock, Thundercracker and Jazz joined him. The leaders watched over his shoulder as he began explaining what needed to be done.

 **“Your pitiful armies will not stop me!”** Another formation of seekers circled towards the construct, but it lifted its tentacle and threw it through the wedge of fliers. One of the Vosians misjudged his trajectory, and he spun out of control, slamming into the ground near the base of the hill. The construct slowly crept forward a few meters before throwing its tentacle through the Praxians again.

Bluestreak looked up as he heard the roar of thrusters, and saw Thundercracker launch himself into the air and transform, rising high into the air. Deadlock and Jazz had also transformed, the Tarnian driving towards the Praxian army and Jazz racing off to his own troops. Meanwhile, Ratchet had finished extracting the Matrix from the Prime’s chassis. Perceptor held a hexagonal frame that surrounded a golden orb, and he looked at it in awe. Wheeljack stood next to him, weaving his hands over the relic and chanting. 

“Rangers, to me!” Ironhide called. He stood next to the Prime, who had closed his optics and seemed to have slipped into recharge. 

Bluestreak joined the loose circle of Rangers that stood around Ironhide. Hound took a place next to him, and they let their hands brush against each other briefly. Bluestreak tried not to let his engine stutter as he looked around and saw how few Rangers were gathered there.

Skids stood next to Ironhide. “This isn’t a great plan, but I think it’s the best we can do with what we have in the time we have available.” Skids pointed down the hill towards the construct, which had laboriously turned towards the ridge once more. “We can’t use our seekers or aerials to drop the Matrix from above: there’s too much flak in the air because of the Nyonese artillery, and there’s too great a chance that we’d lose our chance to open it and detonate it. So we’re going to deliver it by ground.” 

The Ranger’s strategist drew a quick sketch on the ground with a wire. “Captain Deadlock is going to talk to whoever’s in charge of the Praxian army, while General Jazz is directing his troops. At Thundercracker’s signal, both armies will push into the Nyonese army... err, thing... at once, Praxus from the north, and Polyhex from the south.” He drew a few more lines on the ground. 

“Meanwhile, the Rangers will drive in from our position here. Someone will have to carry the Matrix, open it, and lob it into the monster as they get close. Then they have to get out if there as fast as they can. As soon as the delivery mech is clear, another Ranger will detonate it with their rifle.” He looked around at the circle of Rangers. “Wheeljack said that once the Matrix is open, you’ll only have about half a klik before the energy will disperse. It needs to be detonated before that.”

Ironhide stepped up to stand beside Skids. “Now, at the risk of soundin’ like Ratchet, I’m gonna admit that this plan sounds insane,” he said. “But with the artillery power that Nyon’s shown and what little time we have, this is the best plan we have... Unless any of you have any better ideas?” He looked around the circle and waited for a moment. “Yeah, all right. So... I ain’t orderin’ any of you to do this. This will be strictly on a volunteer basis only. We need a delivery mech, someone to shoot it, and a few mechs to clear the way for them to make sure they can get close enough to do this.” His optics picked out mechs like Windcharger who had serious damage to their frames, and Blurr who could barely keep himself upright. “And... You gotta be in battle-ready shape. You gotta be able to keep up with us, and fight.”

“I’ll go,” said Sunstreaker immediately. He stood up a little straighter as everyone turned to look at him. “Ever since joining the Rangers I knew that I was destined to face the Unmaker someday.” He dropped his optics. “I promised Primus my wits, frame and spark, and I intend to uphold my promise.”

“And if Sunny’s going, so am I,” said Sideswipe. He looked at his twin and smiled. “But he knew I was going to say that.” 

Sunstreaker put his arm around his brother’s neck and pulled him close, tapping their forehelms together.

Bluestreak heard himself say, “I’ll be your gunner.” He paused, then shrugged, realizing that what he’d said made sense, even if he hadn’t actually meant to say it out loud. “I’m probably the best choice for that.”

Hound grabbed at Bluestreak’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “And I can carry the Matrix. I’ve got the largest cargo bed of any of the Rangers.” He looked around. “I might need help once we get there to throw it, but...”

“We can help you with that,” Sideswipe said, and Sunstreaker nodded in agreement.

One by one, the Rangers volunteered to help clear the way, until all of the combat-ready mechs had spoken up. Ironhide looked around at the Rangers who had offered their help and nodded. “With me, that’s seven, then,” he said quietly. From down the hill came another bellow from the construct. “We’d better get going.”

On the ground next to Ironhide, the Prime shifted, his optics open once more. “Paladins of Primus,” the Prime said, his vocalizer filled with static. “My Rangers. Wipe this evil from the face of our world.” He looked up at the Rangers gathered around him and then closed his optics. “May your sparks be true... For Cybertron.”

“For Cybertron.” The gathered Rangers murmured the words quietly.

Wheeljack and Perceptor stepped forward, holding the Matrix between them. “The enchantment is complete,” Wheeljack said. He pointed at the handles on either side of the hexagonal frame. “Just pull on both sides, here and here, and it’ll open, exposing the Matrix itself.” The two mechs handed the Matrix to Hound, and Wheeljack added, “Remember, once you’ve opened it, you’ve only got a short time before the energy dissipates.”

Hound accepted the Matrix, his optics filled with a mix of fear and reverence. He nodded solemnly. “I understand.” He transformed, smoothly shifting the Matrix into his cargo bed, and gripped it with his built-in restraints.

“Rangers,” Ironhide called. “Get ready to roll out... On Thundercracker’s signal.” He transformed and revved his engine. 

Bluestreak transformed along with the rest of the Rangers, settling on his tires next to Hound. His sensors swept over the green mech’s frame one last time. “I’ll see you on the other side, Hound,” he said quietly.

“Same,” said Hound. He rolled, nudging Bluestreak with his bumper. “Don’t miss your shot,” he said with a hint of humour in his tone.

Bluestreak laughed, trying to ignore the stab of fear in his spark. “Do I ever?” he asked.

From above them came a peal of thunder, followed by a sonic boom. From the north, the First Praxian Cavalry charged forward again in perfect formation, its crisp lines sweeping towards the enemy. From the south, the remains of the Polyhexian infantry plowed into the base of the construct.

Roaring, the trunk of the construct rippled, then several tentacles ripped away from its sides. The new appendages waved through the air before slapping down through the two armies that attacked it from either side.

Ironhide blew his horn, and then they were roaring down the hill from the east towards the construct of grey mechs.

As they got closer, Bluestreak realized that the construct was much larger than it had looked from the top of the hill. It towered over them, seemingly growing in height as they reached the bottom of the hill. It bellowed as it reared back, the distorted horned helm swaying overhead.

Suddenly, the construct noticed them. Another three appendages pulled away from the main trunk of its body and slammed into the ground, trying to crush the Rangers that were driving at top speed towards it.

Bluestreak swerved to avoid the tentacle that landed closest to him. He caught a blurred glimpse of greyed mechs, their mouths open in silent screams and their frames melted into each other, before the tentacle lifted back into the air. 

**“A delivery!”** the construct boomed from far overhead. **“I am glad you could see things my way, Prime.”**

Another tentacle crashed to the ground in front of the Rangers, halting their progress. The Rangers in the front of the line transformed, pulling out their weapons as they found their pedes. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker launched themselves at the appendage, their blades flashing through the air, while Ironhide and Skids opened fire with their rifles.

The tentacle disintegrated under their assault, and the construct bellowed as if in pain. The mechs that had made up the tentacle fell lifeless to the ground, their sparks spent. “Keep goin’!” yelled Ironhide. “Get closer!”

Bluestreak poured more power into his engine, keeping pace with Hound as the other Rangers transformed and zoomed ahead of them. The Matrix bounced in Hound’s cargo bed as the green mech hit a rock, but his cargo restraints held it firm. Bluestreak’s sensors looked up at the construct. They were still several hundred meters from its base, but already it seemed impossibly tall.

 **“Enough!”** The construct roared as the Rangers pressed further past its defences, dodging artillery fire and the tentacles that whipped through the air above them. **“Enough of this foolishness. This ends here!”**

Another tentacle constructed of dead mechs shot out from the construct’s body. Before either of them could react, the tentacle casually knocked Bluestreak to the side and wrapped itself around Hound’s frame, lifting the green mech into the air. Hound transformed and caught the Matrix in his hands while trying to free himself from the tentacle’s grasp, but it held him tightly.

“Hound!” In one motion, Bluestreak transformed, bringing his rifle to his shoulder and firing at the tentacle that held Hound. Bits of mechs that made up the tentacle shredded off as his shots hit it, but it held Hound firmly. Bluestreak ran forward, his optics locked on his lover as he was lifted higher and higher into the air. 

**“The Matrix is mine!”** thundered the construct. A maniacal laugh rose from somewhere deep inside of it, and it lifted Hound up to the depressions in its face that passed for optics. **“The power of life and the power of death are mine!”**

Bluestreak’s optics locked on the tiny green figure dangling in the air above him. Hound held the Matrix above his helm, and he looked down at Bluestreak. Then, Hound pulled on the sides of the Matrix and opened its golden shell.

An orb of silvery white light emerged from the golden shell, hovering between Hound’s hands.

“Shoot it!” Bluestreak heard Hound’s voice faintly from above him. “Blue! Shoot it! End this!”

Bluestreak shouldered his rifle and aimed. Then he hesitated. “But...” Bluestreak’s vocalizer caught. If he shot the Matrix now, Hound – Hound and all of the Rangers – would be caught in the explosion. On the ground, they may be just out of range of the worst of the blast, but Hound... 

**“Prepare yourselves for the end,”** roared the construct. The orb hanging in the air between Hound’s hands grew brighter. **“A new age is about to dawn!”**

“Do it!” Hound’s voice floating down from above. “Now!”

Bluestreak brought his rifle back to his shoulder and aimed again. His targeting processes came online, feeding him the data he needed to adjust his aim for the angle, the movement of the tentacle that held Hound, the wind that gusted around the monstrosity. But his optics flickered back to the green mech that held the Matrix in his hands.

A familiar warmth spread through his spark. It enveloped him in a blanket of love and compassion, of understanding and empathy. Then, through his spark, he heard a voice.

_**Bluestreak of Iacon, who was Silverstreak of Praxus. Will you permit me to use your wits, your frame and your spark to do what must be done to save Cybertron?** _

His optics wide, Bluestreak focused on the voice. It sounded... No, it **felt** familiar, but he was sure he had never actually felt or heard it before. “But... Hound...” A whimper escaped his vocalizer.

 _ **Bluestreak of Iacon, do you consent? May I use your life to save Cybertron from death?**_ The voice was accompanied by a brush of sympathy. _**The choice is yours, Bluestreak, but the window of opportunity to act grows smaller by the moment.**_

The oath that Bluestreak had recited so many lifetimes ago in the Iacon cathedral came back to him. _“I pledge to place my wits, my frame, and my spark between the Unmaker and Cybertron. I shall fall before Cybertron falls.”_

Hound screamed as the tentacle wrapped around him flexed. Bluestreak could see Hound’s plating crumple as he was squeezed. 

Hound had taken that same oath.

 _Yes,_ Bluestreak thought. He closed his optics. “Yes,” he said quietly.

Instantly, a flare of heat and knowledge and love filled his processer and frame to bursting. His optics flew open, growing brighter and brighter until they blazed a brilliant white. Bluestreak felt like a passenger in his own frame as his hands lifted his rifle back to his shoulder and fired.

His shot flew true, straight into the heart of the radiant orb that Hound held above his helm.

There was an eruption of light and heat, fear and sorrow, elation and regret, relief and pure joy. 

Then the world went white, and silent, and still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry/not sorry about all the cliffhangers.
> 
> Chapter 19 is done, just finishing up the editing. It'll likely be up at the end of the week? :)


	19. Between Life and Death

He existed.

No, wait. There was more to it than that. He had once had a designation. What was it? Words flickered past him, and he latched onto one that seemed right. _Bluestreak._ Yes.

Bluestreak existed, and he felt calm.

Had he ever felt anything other than calm? Was it even **possible** to feel anything other than calm? Bluestreak considered this. Yes, he knew there were other emotions, and he was sure that he had felt them at some other time. But when, and what were they?

Suddenly, in an overwhelming flood, everything came back to him at once.

Holding a rifle to his shoulder and firing, and feeling elated when the shot struck the very center of the target on his first try. 

Smiling up at a grey and red mech who held him in a tight embrace and kissed his chevron as Bluestreak snuggled into the comfort of his arms.

Laughing hysterically as a larger blue and red mech covered his face, then pulled his hands aside suddenly to grin down at Bluestreak with a silly expression.

Standing tall and proud as an armored mech finished painting command emblems on Bluestreak’s spread door wings while a throng of kneeling mechs looked on.

Snarling in anger as he made a fist and punched a white and black mech in the jaw, then whirling and running from the room as the mech called after him.

Ducking behind a stack of pallets as two door-winged mechs walked by where he had been working on the dock, his spark thrumming in fear.

Raising a glass of high-grade to his lips as he laughed at something the green mech with kind optics said, and feeling his spark twirl in happiness.

_Hound._

Lifting his rifle to his shoulder, aiming at the glowing silver orb of the Matrix, and pulling the trigger as his spark cried out in sorrow, knowing that the shot would kill the mech who held it aloft.

_Hound._

Bluestreak clawed his way out of the flood of emotions that overcame him. He reeled, trying to steady himself, then felt the brush of another presence against his.

This new presence was quiet and still. As Bluestreak gently touched it, the other presence did not immediately react to him. Gingerly, he brushed against it again. It felt familiar. It was kind, and forgiving, and generous, and yearned for the wild countryside, and...

_Hound!_

Bluestreak pulled the presence against his, encircling it with all of the love and relief that he felt. Gradually, the other presence seemed to wake. It returned his caress, reciprocating the feelings that Bluestreak was pouring into it, until they pulsed gently at each other in adoration.

Pulling back into himself, Bluestreak became aware that he was kneeling. He and Hound knelt, pressed chest to chest, their arms wrapped around each other and their helms resting on each other’s shoulders. Bluestreak pulled Hound tight against him, his lips brushing Hound’s audial receptor.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Bluestreak whispered.

Hound shook his helm and pulled back to look Bluestreak in the optics. “You didn’t lose me. I’m here,” he said with a gentle smile. Then he looked around, the expression on his face changing to one of confusion. “But... where...?”

They knelt in a featureless white space. There were no walls, ceiling or floor... Or if there were, they were all the same bright white. There were no shadows, no corners, and no limits to the space.

Bluestreak climbed carefully to his pedes, and held out a hand to Hound. It was slightly disorienting. He could feel a surface beneath him, but his optics could not differentiate it from anything surrounding them. It was as if they floated in a white void.

“Are we... dead?” asked Hound, spinning slowly around.

“No. You aren’t dead. Not exactly, anyway.”

They turned in unison to see a mech standing a few meters away. Bluestreak was certain the mech had not been there a moment before. The mech was tall, with golden armor. Long ornate finials swept back from his helm, and huge wings with wide pinions were held loosely behind him. He smiled at them calmly.

“Then... Where are we?” Bluestreak asked. 

“This is the place between life and death, where my brother and I have equal sway,” said the golden mech. 

“Your brother...” Bluestreak frowned, then his optics widened as realization blossomed in his processor. “Primus?”

The corners of the golden mech’s silvery-white optics tipped upwards as he smiled. “I have been called by that designation,” he said.

Hound seemed to waver between wanting to throw himself to his knees, and staring at the golden mech in disbelief. He compromised by clutching at Bluestreak’s shoulder. “You... You were the one who spoke to me.” Hound gestured with his free hand. “Just before that thing grabbed me, I heard you ask... You asked if you could use me.” He looked wildly at Bluestreak, as if wanting him to refute what he was saying. “And suddenly I knew what was going to happen... That it would pick me up, and I would open the Matrix, and you would shoot it, and...” He frowned for a moment before looking back at the golden mech. “I knew it would be ok, if only Bluestreak would fire.”

“And I felt you take me over.” Bluestreak put his arm around Hound’s back, supporting the trembling green mech. He recalled the sensation of being filled to bursting with knowledge that was not his, and of his frame moving on its own to raise his rifle and fire. Bluestreak lifted his door wings high and asked, “Am I... Are **we** the vessel for Primus? For... you?” He shuddered suddenly, remembering the teachings of his youth, and how he had disregarded them later in life. 

The mech who called himself Primus laughed quietly. “That is a common misunderstanding.” He walked towards them, clasping his hands behind his back. “I needed someone – two someones, in this case – but they just needed to be the right mechs, with the right sparks, to be in the right place at the right time.” The golden mech paused several paces away. “There’s more to it, of course,” he said. “We – my brother and I – have limited powers in the mortal plane. We depend on mortals to act for us, but we cannot impose our will upon theirs. Every time we fight our battles, we must always have someone willing to act on our behalf.” 

“That’s why we had to agree to do what was needed.” Hound’s tremors had calmed, and he stood more easily now without clinging to Bluestreak. When the golden mech nodded, Hound said, “You said we were the right mechs, with the right sparks.” He glanced at Bluestreak before asking, “What made us... right?”

Bluestreak did not see the golden mech move, but one moment he was standing several paces away, and the next moment he stood right next to them. He held out a hand and brushed it against Hound’s helm. “From you, Hound of Nyon, I needed your generous spirit, and your willingness to sacrifice yourself for others.” He smiled as Hound tipped his helm into the golden mech’s hand, pressing his face into the palm. Then the golden mech turned and lifted his hand towards Bluestreak.

As the golden mech touched Bluestreak’s helm, he felt a warmth cascade from where the mech touched him. The warmth flowed throughout his frame before settling around his spark like a merge, wrapping him in a blanket of love and compassion. Bluestreak’s optics dimmed as he leaned into the touch against his helm, and he heard the golden mech say, “And from you, Bluestreak of Iacon, I needed your strength of conviction, and your ability to love deeply and wholly.”

The golden mech withdrew his hand, and with it faded the feeling of a gentle merge. Bluestreak opened his optics to see that the golden mech was once again standing at a slight distance from them. “The two of you were key to defeating my brother. But **all** of my champions had something to contribute.” He fanned his hands out, indicating the featureless white space around him.

Arrayed around Bluestreak, Hound, and the golden mech were the rest of the Rangers who had come with them in that last, desperate charge towards the Nyonese army and the monstrosity they had spawned. Sunstreaker knelt, his face pressed into the floor and his hands clasped tightly in supplication. Sideswipe crouched next to his twin, his hand resting on Sunstreaker’s back as he looked up at the golden mech with wide optics. Ironhide stood at attention, his gaze fixed on the golden mech with an air of reverence. Knock Out stood nearby, his mouth hanging open and a look of disbelief on his face, while Skids knelt on one knee, his optics fixed on the ground and his door wings hanging low. 

“Hound and Bluestreak were the ultimate keys I needed, but all of you gave of yourselves,” said the golden mech as he looked around at the gathered Rangers. 

The golden mech was suddenly standing next to Ironhide and touched his helm as he had done to Hound and Bluestreak. “Ironhide of Altihex, I needed your leadership.” Ironhide made a soft sound as the golden mech withdrew his hand.

Next the golden mech stood beside Knock Out and brushed his fingers on the side of his face. “Knock Out of Velocitron, you gave your dedication even in the face of your own skepticism.” Knock Out’s mouth snapped shut as the golden mech’s hand cradled his helm for a moment.

Kneeling next to Sunstreaker, the golden mech gently pulled Sunstreaker’s chin up until he looked up at him with dark blue optics. He smiled down at the trembling yellow mech. “Sunstreaker of Kaon. Your devotion is unparalleled.” The mech who called himself Primus gently traced his thumb down the side of Sunstreaker’s helm, and the Kaonite squeezed his optics shut as a quiet sob escaped his vocalizer.

The golden mech moved his hand to Sideswipe’s cheek. “Sideswipe of Kaon, your protectiveness and ability to ground your twin so that he could continue to fight was crucial.” Sideswipe lowered his helm until it rested against the top of Sunstreaker’s.

With a smile, the golden mech took Skids’ hand in his. “And Skids of Praxus, you gave your creativity and ingenuity to help all of us succeed.” He lifted the Praxian’s hand to his mouth and gently brushed it with his lips. Skids’ door wings trembled as he closed his optics tightly.

Bluestreak looked around at all of the Rangers, pride swelling in his spark. These were mechs that he would – that he did – trust his spark with. But his processer focused on something that the golden mech had said. He straightened his shoulders. “Wait. You said we were key to defeating the... your brother? Does that mean we won? It worked?” He gripped Hound’s hand tightly. “We stopped that thing Shockwave created?”

The golden mech spread his wings wide and lifted his helm, gesturing to the brilliant white space around them. “Yes. Thanks to your assistance, we were triumphant over my brother’s forces. The power of life and light have banished the power of death and darkness from this realm, and from yours.” He held out his hands, palms up, mirroring the pose of the statue in the Iacon cathedral. “You, my paladins, have stopped my brother from unleashing his destruction upon the world. In this revolution of time’s cycle, the force of life won out, thanks to you.”

Relief spilled through Bluestreak, and he felt the tension bleed out of his frame. He hugged Hound tightly to him. “Cybertron is safe,” he whispered. Prowl and Smokescreen and Ratchet and the Prime and all of the other mechs he knew and loved were safe from Shockwave’s plans and the Unmaker’s grasp.

“You’ve fought this battle before,” said Knock Out with a note of certainty.

The golden mech nodded. “Yes. Every few eons, the brother who was defeated in the last battle gathers his power until he is able to challenge the victor.” 

“Do you always win?” asked Skids. When the golden mech looked at him, he cleared his vocalizer and glanced down, lowering his door wings in deference. “Uh... Sir.”

“No.” The golden mech shook his helm. “Sometimes my brother triumphs, and then death rules this plane and yours until I am able to unseat him once more.”

Still gripping Bluestreak’s hand, Hound took a small step forward. “Everything that’s been happening... The mines and crops failing, and the silence in the Sonic Canyons, and the calm on the Rust Sea... That’s part of it, isn’t it?” When the golden mech nodded, Hound frowned. “Then is it true? Is Cybertron dying?”

“It’s true that as my brother gathered his power, parts of your world began to die.” The golden mech held out his hand, and a red and silver sphere appeared over his palm. Bluestreak stared at it, recognizing features like the Rust Sea, and the Manganese Mountains. “Had my brother been victorious, the entire planet would have succumbed.” As he spoke, a dark grey stain spread over the surface of the sphere, flattening the surface and blotting out the other colours. “But when you released the power of life that was held inside the Matrix, you stopped the spread of this blight.” A flash of light appeared on the surface, and it spread across the globe, returning the topography and colour to the brilliance it had before. “Your actions not only defeated my brother, but it restored Cybertron.”

“But now it’s gone.” Sideswipe had finally settled to his knees, and he held his twin’s hand tightly in one of his. Sunstreaker had sat up, his optics fixed on the golden mech. Sideswipe glanced at the other Rangers. “We released the power of Primus from the Matrix. There’s nothing left. So the next time the Unmaker gathers his strength...”

“Which is why I brought you here,” said the golden mech. He flexed his hand, and the tiny version of Cybertron vanished, only to be replaced by an image of the Matrix. “I have one more thing to ask of you. The power inside the Matrix was never mine, even though it was drawn on the power of life itself. Instead, it was gifted by mechs very much like you. They each gave a part of their own sparks to form the Matrix, in the hopes that in a distant time, in the next battle, others would use their gift to defeat Unicron. Now, I give you the choice to do the same.”

Bluestreak’s optics opened wide. He suddenly recalled the flare of foreign emotions he had felt after the Matrix dispersed its energy. He flared his door wings at the memory, and how raw some of the emotions had seemed. Bluestreak was certain that those feelings came from the last mechs who, eons ago, gave parts of their sparks to create the Matrix that he had detonated.

The golden mech looked at each of the Rangers in turn. “But doing this is not without consequence. Giving of your spark will shorten the time you have left on this plane. You are bequeathing part of your life to help those who will fight this same battle in a distant future.” He lowered his hand and the image of the Matrix disappeared. “The choice is yours, of course. And there is no shame in refusing, and no one will hold your decision against you. Your spark is yours and yours alone. No one can tell you what to do with the life that has been given to you.”

Bluestreak frowned, hesitating on learning what the gift would cost him. Now those conflicted emotions he had felt from those ancient mechs made sense. He closed his optics and tried to steady his spark. A part of his own life to help save others, far in the future... Was it a fair trade?

“Yes.” Sunstreaker lurched to his pedes. Sideswipe held out a hand as if to steady him, but Sunstreaker shook off his brother and took a step forward. “Yes. I have dedicated my life to you... to Primus.” The designation caught in his vocalizer. “Please. Take my spark, as much as you need.”

“Mine, too.” Sideswipe glanced at his twin, and his familiar grin flashed across his lips. “If Sunny gives up part of his spark, I can’t let him do it alone.”

The golden mech nodded. “Two halves of the same spark, but so full of life,” he said. He smiled sadly. “Your sacrifice will be the most difficult, but it will be received most gratefully.”

“I agree as well.” Bluestreak lifted his door wings as he came to a decision. When the golden mech turned his silvery-white optics on him, he glanced down. The image of the writhing construct flashed across his memory, and he shuddered. “If I can help defeat the Unmaker again in any way, I want to help.”

“Me too,” said Hound. He smiled at Bluestreak. “Cybertron’s the only home we have,” he said. “I’d do anything to save it again.”

One by one, all of the Rangers consented. When Knock Out agreed, though, he added, “I guess I’m going to have to have a long talk with the priests in the cathedral.” He looked around and shrugged. “I mean, come on. We’re talking to a deity. This upends a lot of what I thought I knew. I think I’m going to owe a few of the priests an apology.”

“Unfortunately, Knock Out of Velocitron, you will not remember this place,” said the golden mech. At Knock Out’s exclamation, he added, “You will remember that you have done a great thing, and you will know that you must locate the new Matrix and safeguard it. But this realm exists separate from yours.” He smiled apologetically. “I am afraid that the details of this conversation will be left here.”

Knock Out groaned. “Well, great. Just... Don’t smite me or anything for not believing in you,” he said. “Not when I had proof, but then forgot it.”

The golden mech laughed, a sound like crystal being struck in harmony. “I promise I will not smite you... Not for that anyway,” he said with a smile. 

“What?” asked Knock Out faintly. When the golden mech laughed again, Knock Out covered his optics with a hand. “Oh Primus... Primus has a sense of humour.”

The golden mech lifted his hands, holding his palms up. “Now... I thank you, my paladins, for your trust and for your sacrifices.”

Bluestreak suddenly felt a twist in his spark. Hound’s hand tightened on his, and he heard the green mech pull air through his intake. Bluestreak closed his optics as the sensation grew more intense. The twist in Bluestreak’s spark became a pinch, then a burn, then a sharp pain, and then... it released.

His optics flew open, and he saw a tiny orb of light emerge from his chest armor, directly over his spark. The silvery-white light rose in the air, joined by another bright blue orb that emerged from Hound. Lights rose from each of the Rangers, drifting towards the golden mech. The orbs began circling each other over the golden mech’s hands, spinning faster and faster until all of the orbs blurred into one another. Then, in a brilliant flare of light, the orbs merged, the light growing more intense until Bluestreak had to look away.

When Bluestreak looked back, the golden mech held a single white orb in his hands. It grew brighter and brighter, until its dazzling light overwhelmed Bluestreak’s optical sensors, and he shut his optics once more.

“Go well, paladins of Primus. Seek that which you have given. Find the new Matrix. Keep it safe and guard it well. I thank you, and future generations thank you, for the gift of your wits, your frames, and your sparks.”

* * *

Bluestreak’s systems were sluggish to boot up. An array of errors and damage warnings littered his HUD, but he didn’t need the diagnostics to know that everything hurt. Every joint, every armor seam, every cable and every internal motor ached. Even his spark throbbed with a steady dull pain.

His motors were cold, and the fuel in his lines felt like it had gelled. He onlined his optics. They were slow to power up, but gradually his optical sensors were warm enough to focus. They focused first on the closest thing to him: a hand. Bluestreak stared at the hand for a long klik, tracing the lines of each digit with his optics. 

Sending a frame movement command through his processor, Bluestreak gently flexed his left hand. The digits on the hand that he was staring at slowly bent down to the palm, then straightened again. He felt an ache in his digits as he moved them, and his cables protested about being stretched before they had a chance to properly warm up.

Getting up was going to be a chore.

Bluestreak refocused his optics. Beyond his hand was the frame of another mech. It was grey with death. A bit further away, he could make out another deactivated frame, and another beyond that. 

His chronometer had not reinitialized yet, so Bluestreak turned his helm slightly, grimacing at the grinding pain the movement caused in his neck. The sun was low in the sky, dipping slowly towards the horizon. Long shadows stretched across what little of the terrain he could see around him.

He reviewed his memory and found it a jumbled mess. There had been a battle, and an explosion of some kind, and then... The shards of the memory were falling away like shattered crystal. He had been speaking with someone else, someone powerful. Someone who mattered. He had been told something of critical importance. He was supposed to do something, or find something. 

What was he supposed to remember? He remembered pieces... Smiling silver optics. White light. An image of Cybertron turning the grey of death. He grasped at the pieces of the memory frantically, but the harder he tried to hold them the more they disintegrated. _Think, Bluestreak!_ he thought. _What did you need to do?_ In his spark he felt as though he had something urgent to do, but he could not dredge up the memory of what that something was.

Bluestreak closed his optics wearily and noted the low fuel and energy warnings on his HUD. Maybe if he got some recharge and fuel into himself the details would come back, and –

Suddenly, Bluestreak’s spark throbbed. His optics clenched shut even tighter against the pain. But somewhere in front of him, not far away, he sensed a brilliant flare of white light that burned brighter than a supernova. His spark trembled, lurching in its casing as it tried to stretch towards that light.

He opened his optics. There was no light; if anything, the sky had grown darker as the sun set. But he still felt the pull in his spark, drawing him towards where he had sensed the light.

Levering himself up with both arms, Bluestreak groaned as his frame protested every movement. He looked around for a moment but could only see greyed frames stacked like dunes around him. Taking a moment to rest, he heard faint voices carried on the wind, but he could not see anyone.

With a huge effort, he staggered to his pedes, a faint groan escaping his vocalizer. As he stood, more low energy warnings pinged on his HUD, but he dismissed them all. The pull on his spark was far too strong for him to ignore. He turned to orient himself in the right direction, and slowly began walking.

Bluesteak caught movement to his left, and turned his helm. A large red mech was plodding forward, his steps ponderous and slow. Ironhide looked at Bluestreak and nodded. He lifted his arm – how did he have the strength to do that? – and pointed. “That way,” he rasped.

Nodding, Bluestreak turned and continued walking. It seemed like each movement had to be relayed to his frame control separately. Lift the left foot. Swing the left foot forward. Set down the left foot. Shift weight to the left leg. Lift the right foot. Slowly, with his frame singing in pain and his spark pulsing in sympathy, he moved forward.

To his right, a green mech rose to his pedes. His armor was crumpled and crushed, and energon slowly drooled from a tear in his chest plating. Meeting his optics, Hound fell into step beside him. They laboriously made their way forward, picking a path through the drifts of the dead. Bluestreak wanted to reach out, touch his lover, ask him how he was doing, hold him in his arms, but that would have taken more energy than Bluestreak had left. 

So they walked, pulled along towards what their sparks sought.

Bluestreak heard a cry of alarm, followed by a faint whoop of a siren. The alarm was followed by voices, thick with Polyhexian accents.

“Look o’er there! We got empties!”

“They ain’t empties! Look, they got lights and colour on ‘em.”

“I thought they scanned this area fer survivors already.”

“They did! They didn’t find nobody. Eve’y mech was deactivated and cold.”

“Then where’d they come from?”

He heard the roar of an engine come up behind them, but Bluestreak could not spare the power to turn around to face the mech. He had to keep moving forward. He had to keep walking towards the light that called to his spark.

“Halt! Identify yerselves!”

A nearby mech rose on shaking legs, Knock Out’s posture dominated by pain and fatigue. Then, a bit further away, another mech staggered to his pedes. Skid’s door wings hung low on his back as he struggled to move himself forward.

“They’re all Rangers,” said one of the voices in a hushed tone. “Look’it their shoulder armor.”

“Are they the ones that carried the Matrix down here?” 

“Keep yer weapons trained on ‘em. There’s somethin’ wrong with ‘em. Maybe they got... I dunno, a rebound curse or somethin’.”

“Oi! Rangers! Are ya’ll right?”

“Where are they goin’?”

“Someone get General Jazz down here.”

“Forget the General. Get a medic!” 

Bluestreak kept his optics forward. Nothing mattered except getting to the light that he had sensed. The one piece of memory that he was able to cling to was of an orb of brilliant white light, held in the palm of a mech’s hand. The orb called to him, urging him forward.

He trudged his way around another pile of corpses, and found two mechs pulling themselves along on the ground. They seemed to be too weak to stand, but clawed their way forward on their chests. Sunstreaker’s optics were grimly fixed ahead of him as he dragged himself along silently, while Sideswipe looked forward, then at his twin, then back forward again.

There, in the middle of a circular clearing between the stacks of corpses, lay a crumpled frame. It was grey with death, just like all of the bodies around it, but it had a hexagonal helm. 

Inside the helm, where before there had been a single red optic, was a brilliant ball of silvery-white light.

Bluestreak lurched the last few steps towards the frame and collapsed on his knees. His spark was spinning furiously, battering itself against its chamber. Bluestreak reached out a hand and rested it on the greyed helm.

Calm washed over him.

In moments, his spark’s agitated movements subsided, slowing its revolutions to their normal speed. The relentless urge to seek and find, the compulsion that had been drawing him forward despite his low energy reserves, was gone. He felt only peace.

Bluestreak was dimly aware of other mechs collapsing beside him, their hands reaching out to touch the helm that held that glowing orb. As each mech touched the helm, they stilled, their harsh ventilations quieting. 

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there like that, all seven Rangers kneeling or lying around the dead Chancellor. But when Bluestreak heard someone quietly say his designation and he lifted his helm, he saw that the sun had set and the stars had begun to appear in the sky above them. 

A blue visor shone over him, and multiple headlights illuminated the scene. General Jazz was kneeling next to him, close by but carefully not touching him. “Bluestreak? Are ya with me?”

Bluestreak nodded. “Yes.” He shifted carefully, leaving his hand pressed against the helm. “The Matrix... It needs to be kept safe,” he whispered.

Jazz’s visor flickered as he looked at the glowing orb that spun in the hexagonal helm where the optic once was. “Ya blew up the Matrix,” he said. “Ya shot it. Remember?”

Bluestreak shook his helm. He didn’t know how to explain. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to explain it. He wasn’t even sure **what** he was explaining, but he knew what he needed. He knew what all of the Rangers there needed. “ **This** is the Matrix,” he said insistently. “We need to keep it safe. We need to get it to the Prime.”

Beside him, Ironhide grunted. “We gotta keep it safe,” he said.

Murmurs from the other Rangers rose from the mechs gathered around the helm.

Rocking back on his heels, Jazz’s visor brightened. “If this is the Matrix,” he said quietly, “I promise ya that we’ll see it gets back to yer Prime.”

Low energy alarms began popping up on Bluestreak’s HUD as his systems began to shut down, one after the other. “I’m... losing... power,” he said, offlining his optics to save what little energy he had left. “Please... Keep it... safe...”

“I promise ya that the Matrix won’t leave my sight until I get it to yer Prime,” said Jazz quietly.

“Thank... you....” Bluestreak’s frame control powered down, leaving him to slump forward to rest his helm on Hound’s shoulder. As the rest of his systems shut down, a blessed peace washed over him. They had found the Matrix. The Matrix was safe. Cybertron would have a fighting chance the next time the Unmaker gathered his strength.

Everything went dark and silent as he slipped offline.


	20. Coming Home

The scent of cleanser. Soft, murmuring voices. Pedes echoing on a stone floor.

The last time Bluestreak had come online his frame had been wracked with pain. But this time, he mostly felt fine. None of his joints or cables hurt. His fuel tanks were topped off, and his energy levels, while not optimal, were at least out of the red zone. However, a pervasive fatigue still curled through his systems.

In fact, the only warning on his HUD was something about his spark. It throbbed slightly, sending a slight jolt of pain through his upper chest. 

Bluestreak opened his optics and looked up at the ceiling. It was one of the high beam ceilings from the Iacon citadel that he had admired ever since he had arrived. He could hear a mech’s engine idling quietly next to him, and he turned his helm to look.

Prowl sat on a chair beside his berth, intently reading a pad. One of his door wings twitched, and he glanced at Bluestreak. His optics widened suddenly and he set the pad aside on the table, leaning forward to grasp Bluestreak’s hand.

“Bluestreak?” he asked, his optics darting around his brother’s face. 

“Yeah?” Bluestreak replied, his vocalizer sounding scratchy. 

Prowl’s door wings dipped low, mirroring the expression of relief on his face. He sat up, gesturing to someone else in the room before bending back down to look into Bluestreak’s optics. “It’s so good to see you online again,” Prowl said quietly.

Bluestreak frowned at the other Praxian. The last time he had seen his brother, Prowl’s plating had been scorched and torn, and a door wing had been almost ripped off. Now, his plating looked almost pristine, except for a few faint welds that crossed it here and there. Both of his door wings were held firmly behind him. “How long have I been... off?” he asked.

An expression of worry crossed Prowl’s face. “Almost a deca-cycle,” he said quietly. 

Ratchet appeared behind Prowl, and the other Praxian vacated the chair for the medic. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Bluestreak,” Ratchet said. He rested his hand on Bluestreak’s chest, his palm flat against his plating. “How do you feel?”

“Fine, mostly,” Bluestreak said. His spark gave another throb, and he added, “My spark hurts. And I’m really tired.”

Ratchet nodded and began checking Bluestreak’s joints and cables with a gentle touch. “Your spark was damaged somehow, probably in the explosion. That’s why you’re tired. Until it heals, you’ll find yourself becoming drained easily.”

Hovering behind Ratchet, Prowl said, “Can I go get...” His door wings fluttered behind him in barely contained excitement.

“Yes, yes. Go ahead.” Ratchet waved his hand, then twisted to scowl at Prowl sternly. “But make it fast. If he slips back into recharge while you’re gone, I will not let you wake him back up.”

With a quick nod, Prowl turned and vanished from Bluestreak’s sight.

Bluestreak’s spark throbbed again, and he felt a gentle tug on it. _The Matrix!_ Bluestreak suddenly remembered the overwhelming fatigue and pain he felt as he dragged himself to find the glowing orb. He lifted his shoulders and grabbed Ratchet’s hand, urgently asking, “The Matrix? Where is it?”

Ratchet patted Bluestreak’s chest with his free hand. “It’s safe,” he said gently. “Jazz brought it back to Iacon and gave it to the Prime.”

Laying back on the berth, Bluestreak let the tension go out of his cables for a moment. Prime had the Matrix. The Matrix was safe. He wasn’t sure why he was so obsessively concerned about it, but he knew he trusted the Prime to safeguard the Matrix. After all, he’d been doing so for hundreds of vorn already. 

Bluestreak closed his optics wearily. Another memory flickered through his processor, this time of a green mech screaming in pain. His optics fluttered open again. “And Hound? Is Hound all right?”

“Hound is fine. All seven of you are all right, in fact.” The medic stopped fussing over Bluestreak’s frame for a moment and looked at him with an unreadable expression. “It was a near thing, I think... Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were both nearly deactivated from spark damage when they were brought back here, but all of you made it.”

“We... won. Right?” Bluestreak asked. He vaguely remembered knowing that they had been successful in defeating Shockwave’s forces, but he couldn’t remember the details of the conversation, nor who had told him.

Ratchet nodded. “Yes. We won.” He frowned and glanced away. “Not without great cost, though.”

Bluestreak felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him, but he struggled to bring his processor back to full power. “What happened?” he asked. “I remember...” Bluestreak thought for a moment, trying to piece together what he could recall. “I remember driving towards that... thing, and it grabbed Hound.” He felt a chill of fear as the memory of that moment washed over him. “I shot the Matrix. Then I remember waking up later in the cycle, just as the sun was setting.”

“Later in the cycle?” Ratchet scoffed. “Hardly. You lot were found dragging yourselves around three whole cycles after the battle was over.” 

“Three cycles?” Bluestreak asked incredulously. “The sun was setting, so I just assumed...”

Ratchet shook his helm. “After you shot the Matrix, it exploded. And just as Wheeljack and Perceptor had predicted, that thing Shockwave had created fell apart. It just... crumbled to the ground as the Matrix dispelled the enchantment on those poor mechs.” The medic’s optics looked distant as he recalled that moment. He looked back down at Bluestreak. “We went down onto the battlefield to find you, but... You weren’t there.”

Lifting an eyeridge, Bluestreak asked, “You mean you just couldn’t find us? Because we were obviously there.”

Ratchet shrugged. “Well, we went down looking for any mech still alive. It’s possible that your heat signatures just weren’t showing up, and you got overlooked. There are... tens of thousands dead, so it’s not surprising you might have been missed. Regardless, when we couldn’t find any sign of you, we assumed...” He blew air from his vents. “Wheeljack and Perceptor felt just awful. They knew Hound had probably been killed in the initial explosion, but the rest of you should have been salvageable. They thought it might have been some kind of blowback from the dispersion of the Matrix, or that you were caught in a resonance field when the cursed mechs’ charms were dispelled...” The medic shook his helm. “Anyway, you were considered lost in battle, along with all of the other mechs we’d lost.”

Bluestreak considered this soberly. “And then three days later we came back online.”

With a small smile, Ratchet said, “One of the Polyhexian recovery crews was working in the area, collecting up the dead for smelting rites. You gave them quite a scare.” He placed his hand on Bluestreak’s chest again and paused as if listening. Then he grimaced and pulled his hand away. “Wheeljack and Perceptor are still trying to work out what happened. They’ve been down here dozens of times waiting to see if you were online yet. Ironhide woke up first, yesterday afternoon, and I had to chase them out so he could rest.” He looked at Bluestreak sternly. “Let me know if they come around and start asking you questions, and not letting you rest.”

“Yes, medic,” Bluestreak said with a smile, but his optics flicked to the mech who had just come to stand behind Ratchet.

Ratchet turned and looked at Prowl, who had his door wings spread wide. Another mech was standing behind Prowl, but Bluestreak could not see him around Prowl’s wings. “Make it fast. He needs his rest,” Ratchet said, then made room for Prowl to move next to the berth. 

Prowl’s door wings fluttered slightly again. “Someone has been very anxious to see you,” he said. He lowered his door wings and moved over to allow the other mech by.

Standing behind Prowl was a blue and red Praxian with a yellow chevron. He wore a cloak of white and yellow, and his door wings trembled behind him. He smiled uncertainly at Bluestreak.

Bluestreak’s optics widened. “Smokey!” Bluestreak exclaimed. He lifted his hand towards his eldest brother, and Smokescreen grasped it between his.

“Hey, Streaks,” Smokescreen said quietly. His smile slipped slightly as he added, “Uh, Prowl said you go by Bluestreak now, so if you don’t want me to call you that…”

“Streaks is fine,” Bluestreak said, his spark twirling happily in its casing despite its pain. He fought off another wave of fatigue, not wanting to slip into recharge after just having been reunited with Smokescreen after so long. “But I don’t understand… Why are you here? Why aren’t you back in Praxus?”

Smokescreen settled onto the chair that Prowl had been sitting in earlier. "How did I get the Temple priests to allow me to leave Praxus, you mean?” he asked. When Bluestreak nodded, Smokescreen laughed quietly. “They almost begged me to go with the Cavalry.” His smile turned into a grimace, and Bluestreak couldn’t help but smile in response; the quick change in expressions was so characteristic of Smokescreen’s volatile moods. “Prowl’s letter made it clear that a dangerous situation was brewing. I think they hoped that both Prowl and I would end up getting deactivated, and then they could appoint a priest or one of their lackeys as head of the Court until a new successor could be named…”

“…which of course would never happen,” Prowl said, his engine growling quietly. “Once they had that power, they would not relinquish it for anything.”

Bluestreak frowned at the risk that Smokescreen had taken. “What if you **were** deactivated? You knew you were driving into a battle…”

Smokescreen shrugged casually. “I’m no solider. Not like you,” he said affectionately. “So I didn’t drive into battle with the Cavalry. My Guards and the Second Infantry hung far enough back that if things went really badly, we could race back to Praxus and prepare for a siege.“ He squeezed Bluestreak’s hand. “When we heard about that monster that Shockwave had created, though, we almost left right then.” Smokescreen’s worried expression turned back into a smile. “I’m glad we didn’t, or else I would have missed getting to see my little brother.”

“Well, here I am,” Bluestreak said. He smiled up at Smokescreen. “I missed you a lot, Smokey.”

“I missed you, too,” Smokescreen said, static peppering his words. He looked into Bluestreak’s face earnestly, his door wings slowly falling lower and lower. “And… After the battle, when I found Prowl, he told me that he had found you. That you were an Iaconian Ranger, but that you were one of the Rangers who drove in to take that monster down and…” Smokescreen’s vocalizer failed with a click, and he reset it. “He said you were deactivated in the explosion.” He shook his helm, his optics fading to a pale blue. “It was like losing you all over again,” Smokescreen said, his voice fading to a whisper.

“When word arrived back in Iacon that you and your fellow Rangers had been found, still online...” Prowl’s door wings twitched, and he smiled, his expression a mix of relief and pain. “Let’s just say that it’ll probably be quite some time before anything makes me that elated again.”

Smokescreen grinned down at Bluestreak. “I can’t wait until you come back to Praxus. There are so many people who miss you, and they’ll be just ecstatic that you’re all right after all this time.”

Bluestreak sent another surge of energy to his processor as it tried to start shutting down. He knew he didn’t have long before his energy levels forced him back into recharge, but he wanted to make sure Smokescreen understood him clearly. “Smokey, I can’t go back to Praxus. Not after…”

Smokescreen made a dismissive noise. “Don’t worry about being forced into another bonding arrangement.” He lifted his door wings high, his tone defiant. “I am putting an end to all of that as soon as I get back.”

Staring up at his brother, Bluestreak asked, “But… You aren’t King yet. How…?”

Smokescreen waved his free hand, still holding Bluestreak’s with the other. “After we got Prowl’s note about Barricade’s arrest for interfering with a diplomatic mission, I convinced the Court to let me scale back the Temple’s powers. I’ve still got a long way to go,” he said, resignation colouring his tone. Then he tilted his helm and smiled at Bluestreak. “But what happened on the Flats will do wonders for my side of the argument.” He raised a hand and tipped digits up one at a time for each point as he listed them off. “The Unmaker has come again. He was defeated. There was no need for a ‘vessel’ for Primus, Praxian or otherwise. And it wasn’t a Praxian who defeated the Unmaker, nor even a Vosian... It was a ragtag bunch of outlaws and mercenaries who took him down.” He grinned.

Bluestreak felt his plating try to lift at the offhanded insult, but he didn’t have the energy. “The Rangers aren’t mercenaries,” he said. “We’re –“

“I know, I know,” Smokescreen said, still grinning. He patted Bluestreak’s chest armor. “That’s just the spin I’m going to use when I talk to the Court. For all the slag that the Temple has put our people through, what did it get us? Generations of segregation, oppression, and poverty.” He shook his helm, a flash of anger crossing his face. “No more. As soon as I get back to Praxus, I’m throwing all of the priests out of the Court. And once that is done...” He squeezed Bluestreak’s hand again. “I want Prince Bluestreak to come home, even if it’s just for a visit.”

A vision of the ivory walls of Praxus flashed across Bluestreak’s processor, and he felt a quick stab of homesickness. “But I’m not a prince,” he said, his voice fading. “Not anymore. I gave that up. I ran, and made a new life for myself. I’m just a Ranger now.”

Smokescreen lifted his door wings high, flaring them out in an expression of authority that was normally reserved for a meeting of the full Praxian Court. “Streaks, you are my brother,” he said. “No matter what you call yourself or where you live, you will **always** be my brother.” He smiled down at Bluestreak as the Ranger’s optics started to go dim. “You’ll always be my rebellious little brother, Prince Bluestreak.”

Unable to summon any more energy to keep himself online, Bluestreak let his optics close. But he smiled as he drifted offline, feeling the light squeeze of his brother’s hand around his.

* * *

Hound, of course, knew the perfect spot.

The green mech pulled off the road near a sheer drop-off that faced northwest, and transformed. After Bluestreak transformed and stood beside him, he smiled at the Praxian and gestured to the view. “How’s this?” he asked. “You can see almost all of the lowlands from here, and the road that parallels the border between Tarn and Nyon goes straight through the middle.” 

The view encompassed a valley that stretched to the horizon. Far below them, Bluestreak could pick out the meandering ribbon that was the main road the Praxian delegation would follow. “It’s perfect,” he said with a smile.

Taking off his cloak with a flourish, Hound spread it on the ground over the short silvergrass that covered the overlook. “After you,” he said, then settled down to sit next to Bluestreak.

“How are you doing for fuel?” Bluestreak asked.

“Fuel’s fine. Energy’s a little low,” Hound replied. He grimaced slightly. “I wouldn’t mind a bit of a rest.”

Bluestreak nodded. “We’re in no hurry,” he said. “It’ll be a groon or more before the delegation gets far enough into the valley for us to see them. Besides,” he added with a smile and a flick of his door wings, “we’re under medic’s orders to take it easy.”

Ratchet had been unhappy about Bluestreak wanting to accompany Prowl and the rest of the Praxian delegation to the border, then even more unhappy when Hound insisted on joining him. But Bluestreak refused to let it drop, badgering Ratchet until he finally relented. But he issued an edict that they were to take it slow, and rest often. “Your sparks are still healing,” he said sternly. “So no strenuous activity. No racing, no rough driving, no sparring, and no interfacing!”

Smokescreen had left with most of the Praxian forces over two deca-cycles earlier. After the defeat of the Unmaker, he saw his opportunity to dismantle a good deal of the influence that the Temple had built in the Court, and he wanted to get started as soon as he could. Prowl stayed behind in Iacon, along with Lord Fireblade and a small contingent of Guards and infantry, to continue diplomatic discussions.

And there was much to discuss. Before the battle on the Plurex Flats, the countries had set up mutual aid treaties to combat the threat that Nyon posed to all of them... Even though they had no inkling how dire that threat had really been. But now that Chancellor Shockwave and the monstrosity he had created with the help of the Unmaker had been defeated, all of the countries were intent on making sure that something like that would never happen again.

One of the problems, though, was that Shockwave had decimated his country’s government. He had ruled through fear and coercion, removing his enemies by murdering them, enthralling them with dark sorcery, or simply making them disappear into the mines and camps. After the Nyon border had been opened and its citizens discovered that Shockwave was gone, the country veered from being jubilant to being lost. A new government would need to be formed, quickly, to help all of its citizens get back on their pedes.

Fortunately, there had been a strong underground resistance movement that was in a position to step into a governing role. The resistance had worked to undermine Shockwave’s work in the camps, helped vulnerable mechs escape over the border into Iacon and Polyhex, and reunited families that had been torn apart. The leader of the resistance was an outspoken, fiery young mech designated Hot Rod. After speaking with the allied delegation, he reluctantly stepped into a leadership role for the country. Prowl had privately told Bluestreak that he thought Hot Rod would make an excellent leader, even if he was unsure of his abilities right now.

Today, with strong agreements in place between all of the allied countries, Prowl was returning to Praxus to fight his next political battle: helping Smokescreen change Praxus for the better. Step one was to get the Court to agree that the King was no longer capable of leading the country, and that his heir should take the throne.

Bluestreak huffed at a memory of his last conversation with Smokescreen, and Hound looked at him questioningly. Bluestreak glanced at Hound. “I meant to tell you... You know how Smokey said he wanted me to come to his coronation?” he asked. When Hound nodded, Bluestreak said, “He also wants us to have our bonding presentation in Praxus.” He grimaced.

“Bonding presentation?” Hound asked. “Is that like a bonding ceremony?”

Flicking his door wings, Bluestreak said, “Sort of, except you don’t exchange vows or anything. You are just presented to your family and friends as a bonded couple, after the fact.” Bluestreak stared into the valley below them, remembering bonding presentations he had attended as a youngling. “It’s a Praxian custom that grew out of all the arranged bondings set up by the Temple. Mechs didn’t really want to exchange vows with a mech they hardly knew, even if they were bonded to them, so they were just announced to be a bonded pair in a formal setting.” He frowned. “Since only pure mechs had arranged bondings, it was just the higher classes and nobles at first. But then everyone wanted to mimic the upper classes, and eventually it was a common practice.”

Hound shrugged. “It doesn’t sound so bad.”

“No,” Bluestreak groaned. “You don’t understand. Bonding presentations are the most tedious and insincere events you will ever experience. They take forever, there’s lots of talking with so little to actually say, and they are incredibly dull. Plus, a bonding for a member of the royal family is even worse because it’s done before the full Court, so it takes even **longer**. Ugh!”

Laughing, Hound said, “All right, fine, we don’t have to go.”

Bluestreak buried his face in his hands. “Except Smokescreen is just going to pester me until I relent. That’s how he is. Even though I’m in Iacon and he’s in Praxus, he’ll send couriers and lesser nobles and anyone else he can to get me to come back to Praxus for it.” He moaned quietly just thinking about the parade of messengers his eldest brother would probably send. Then he lowered his hands and looked up at the sky. “He’ll be insistent because he needs this. It **would** help him out a lot,” Bluestreak said grudgingly. “It would play well into the narrative he wants to sell, of change from the top on down. One of the Princes, bonding an impure mech – an outsider – and a commoner at that.” He looked at Hound quickly, his door wings quivering slightly. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Hound said with a smile. He thought for a moment and then said, “Well, if it’ll help out your brother, I wouldn’t mind going. If it’ll help bring about that change you were wishing for, I’m all for it.”

Bluestreak’s door wings shot up over his shoulders and he frowned. “Hey! Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Hound laughed again and rocked to the side, bumping into Bluestreak’s shoulder. “You said he wants to change things. What if we agreed to a bonding presentation, but only with some changes to the ceremony to make it less tedious and more sincere?” he asked. 

“Maybe. Actually, that’s a pretty good idea.” He grinned at Hound. “Have I ever told you how smart you are?”

“Never. You just talk about how good I look,” Hound said with a smile, looking back over the lowlands.

Bluestreak laughed. After a klik of looking out at the view, he said, “I told him it wouldn’t be for a while anyway. Not with the damage.”

In addition to the restrictions on driving or any other vigorous activities, Ratchet had advised them both against bonding when they had asked about it. “You should wait until your sparks are fully healed,” he had said, then frowned. “You should know that it might take several orbital cycles to heal completely. And even after they’ve healed, you might want to wait a bit longer, considering we don’t know exactly what damaged your sparks in the first place.”

On the overlook, Bluestreak looked at Hound, who was rubbing his chest absently. Hound nodded. “I know. It still hurts,” he said quietly. “Especially when we’re far away from it, like now.”

Bluestreak knew exactly what Hound was talking about. Wheeljack and Perceptor had been curious, then intrigued, then baffled by the connection that the seven Rangers had with the Matrix. Ever since being caught in the explosion, they were able to point directly at wherever the Matrix was, no matter how far away it was. And the further away they were, the more intensely they felt the pangs in their damaged sparks. The twins seemed to feel it the strongest out of all the Rangers. “It’s like my spark is being ripped in two,” Sunstreaker had said, pressing his hand to his chest armor.

Perceptor and Wheeljack had offered dozens of theories, but none of them seemed to fit quite right. The Rangers’ link to the Matrix had continued even after Wheeljack had constructed a new frame for it, carefully transferring the dead Chancellor’s optic into the center of the new shell. “I can’t help but think it has something to do with the fact that your heat signatures weren’t located after the battle,” Perceptor had said. “It’s almost as if...”

“Stop right there,” said Knock Out. “We’re getting quite enough of that slag from the Polyhexian troops. We don’t need it from you, too.”

Word had spread through the Polyhexian soldiers about the seven Rangers who had risen from the dead three days after the battle, and the story had eventually made its way into the cityfolk in Iacon. After they had been well enough, Hound, Bluestreak, and Knock Out had made a trip to Maccadams just to get out of the citadel for a few groons. The whispers and looks from the city folk made Knock Out roll his optics.

“You know what they’re calling us now?” he asked while they were walking back to the citadel. “The ‘Risen Rangers.’ As if we’re some kind of supernatural beings.” The Velocitronian scoffed. “Absurd.”

For their part, the seven Rangers simply felt a need to make sure the Matrix was kept secure. So they had all felt a huge amount of anxiety when the Prime announced that he would not seek to have the new Matrix incorporated in his frame.

“I was heavily damaged,” the Prime said. His damage had been repaired, but the large mech still had trouble moving the limbs on his right side, and his chest plating didn’t fit together well. “It will be quite some time before I would be able to hold it again. Plus, I have held the Matrix for over three hundred vorn. Perhaps it is time to pass the honour on to the next generation.”

However, the Prime agreed with the diplomats who were in Iacon for talks. After the upheaval in Nyon, perhaps it would be best to wait a vorn or so to let things settle down before looking for someone else to carry the Matrix. In the meantime, the Prime agreed that he would keep the Matrix safe.

Bluestreak wasn’t sure that any of the ‘Risen Rangers’ would be able to fully relax while the Matrix was vulnerable. 

He rubbed his own chest gently, feeling the soft ache and quiet pull towards Iacon in his spark.

Tipping his helm back, Bluestreak closed his optics and let his door wings hang behind him loosely. The sun on his face was warm, and he could see his energy reserves slowly rise as they rested. He would be fine sitting here all afternoon if they had to.

Oh, the hardship.

Suddenly, Bluestreak felt Hound nudge him. He opened his optics to look at the green mech. Hound pressed a digit to his lips, then slowly pointed to a stand of crystals a short distance away.

A turbofox had crept into the open. Its green optics were fixed on the two mechs, and it slowly lifted its muzzle to scent the air. Every plate on the turbofox’s frame was held tightly against it as it took another cautious step into the open and sniffed at the ground. 

Bluestreak stared at the creature, his optics shining in delight. The turbofox took yet another step out from the shadow of the crystal. Suddenly, the tips of its audial arrays shot straight into the air. A moment later, it vanished back into the undergrowth in a flash of grey and silver.

“A turbofox!” Bluestreak squeaked. He turned to Hound and grinned. “I’ve never seen one that close before!”

“I know,” said Hound with a smile. “I smelled him, then opened my optics and there he was. They don’t come out into the open very often, especially with the sun as high as it is right now.”

Leaning over to plant a firm kiss on Hound’s cheek, Bluestreak tried and failed to contain his excitement. “Its tail armor was so sharp! And I didn’t know they could move their audial arrays like that.” His door wings fluttered in glee.

Hound let out a loud laugh. When Bluestreak tilted his helm, Hound laughed more. “Sorry,” he said. He grinned and grabbed Bluestreak’s hand. “I have to tell you something that I should have told you a long time ago, but I was afraid that you’d... freak out.”

Bluestreak’s door wings tipped up, then down as his processor rapidly made guesses what Hound was going to tell him. “I’m listening,” he replied finally.

“You were using an Iaconian accent when you came here,” Hound said. “You were pretty good at it. If you really focused, like when you were talking to someone you didn’t know, it was perfect. And even now, it seems to come more naturally to you. But...”

“But?” Bluestreak prompted when Hound paused.

“When you get really excited or upset about something, your Praxian accent comes through plain and clear. It always has,” Hound said, smiling apologetically. “So... When you’re excited about something, it’s really obvious that you’re from the heart of Praxus. That means, even if you’d had the surgery to remove your door wings or change your body completely, your accent would still give you away.” 

Bluestreak stared at Hound. He had worked hard on his accent over the vorn he’d been running, and thought he had it down pat. He paused, bracing himself for the old familiar flush of anxiety that he had slipped up, done something that would allow someone to identify him. 

But there was no worry, and no fear. All he felt was a soft amusement that Hound had kept this bit of information from him just to stop him from becoming anxious.

“I admit I haven’t put any serious effort into altering my accent in a while,” Bluestreak said. He squeezed Hound’s hand and brought it up to his lips for a kiss. “Smokey did tell me that I sounded Iaconian to him anyway.”

Hound laughed. “And you sound sort of Praxian to me,” he said. “I guess you end up with a mix of accents after living someplace for a while.”

“That’s probably true,” said Bluestreak. He leaned over to rest his helm on Hound’s shoulder. “I guess I’ll always be someone with a pede in Iacon and a pede in Praxus.”

Hound suddenly sat up straighter. “There! Near that hill,” he said, pointing down into the valley. “Is that them?”

Bluestreak peered into the valley and adjusted his vision. At this distance, he could only make out small dots for each of the mechs travelling on the road, but he could see two white diamond-shaped banners. “That’s them,” he said. He watched as the procession slowly made its way along the main road. 

They were so far away already, just specs on the road. His door wings sunk slightly as he remembered saying farewell to Prowl at the border checkpoint.

Hound wrapped an arm around Bluestreak’s shoulders. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You’ll see them again soon. If you don’t get there for our bonding, you’ll at least make it home for your brother’s coronation.”

Bluestreak shook his helm. “I know,” he replied. He turned and smiled at Hound before giving him a quick kiss. “But Iacon’s my home now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two and a half months ago, I was working on a 30-day OTP challenge for Bluestreak/Hound. For the prompt “in a fairy tale,” I wrote [a very quick story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12586468/chapters/28976529) about Bluestreak using some alchemy powder that he’d bought to put Hound to sleep. Unfortunately it turned out to be a love powder instead. Hah!
> 
> In the comments for that story, [Menial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menial/pseuds/Menial) and [SunnySidesofBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnySidesofBlue/pseuds/SunnySidesofBlue) asked some innocent questions wondering what happened after that little short story. I had an upcoming prompt of “shopping together” that I didn’t really have any good ideas for... So I started [writing a bit about what happened](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12586468/chapters/29140374) when Bluestreak went back to the vendor, dragging a hopelessly besotted Hound after him (or so he thought.)
> 
> While I was writing that story, I asked my muse, “Why is Bluestreak poaching game from the Prime?”
> 
> My muse replied, “Because he’s on the run, of course.”
> 
> “Really?” I said, intrigued. “On the run from what?”
> 
> So my muse began to tell me what Bluestreak was running from... And I suddenly realized that this wasn’t anything that would fit in a short story. I had backstory and politics and religion and gods and demons and whoa.
> 
> I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it! I always had an end point in mind, but some details changed (for example, originally there was no breeding program; instead, the Temple sold pure Praxians to "pure" families in exchange for money or favours). I’m really happy with how it all came out, though, especially the big climactic battle... I’ve never written anything like that and I’m glad it seemed to come out well.
> 
> And in response to the inevitable question: Yes, there may eventually be more. My muse is trying to give me more stuff in this AU, but I really need to let my creative batteries recharge for a bit and work on other stuff first. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for all the feedback and encouragement. I really appreciated every single kudo and comment. :)

**Author's Note:**

> **Legend**
> 
>  
> 
> klik: a minute-ish  
> groon: an hour-ish  
> cycle: a day-ish  
> deca-cycle: 10 cycles, so about a week and a half-ish  
> orbital-cycle: a month-ish  
> vorn: a year-ish
> 
> And just for funsies, here’s a five-song playlist for the story. (Linked just for the songs, not the videos... >.>) Presented in no particular order:
> 
> [Angel with a Shotgun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ua830TJ1jxA) \- The Cab  
> [Totem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNTNbU8a4LY) \- Rush  
> [Wrong Side of Heaven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o_l4Ab5FRwM) \- Five Finger Death Punch  
> [Kyrie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9NDjt4FzFWY) \- Mr. Mister  
> [What I Wouldn’t Do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppi1uDvc44w) \- Serena Ryder


End file.
